


The Apprentice's Apprentice

by RunsWithStormWolves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental SanSan, Actors and Theater tech - the universe's natural enemies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, CW: car accident tho, Davos is still Master of "Ships", Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Everyone is a stupid jealous baby, F/M, Fighting is Foreplay right?, Fluff, Intentional SanSan, Jealous!Arya, Jealous!Gendry, Ned Dayne is a weiner pass it on, Ok maybe not accidental SanSan, POV Multiple, Papa Sandor Tells it like it is, Salty Language everyone, Save Davos Seaworth 2k19, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-05-12 17:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 78,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19233520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunsWithStormWolves/pseuds/RunsWithStormWolves
Summary: Returning home from her first year studying acting in Braavos, Arya doesn't feel quite at home at Winterfell. Her one reprieve is performing in the annual Wintertown drama festival, but even there she finds herself terrorized by the impossibly stubborn theater tech Gendry.Gendry is trying not to murder the entitled actors from running amok in his theater, breaking things left and right - and when you break it you buy it.But when Arya breaks something that can't be bought, Davos decides its time for her to take some responsibility, and volunteer around the theater. Whether they like it or not (they definitely do not) Arya and Gendry are stuck together this summer. Fighting each other, themselves, and ultimately, their feelings.It's the small town theater AU that you didn't ask for, and yet, here it is.





	1. The Summer Series

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He looked up catching her eye for just a moment too long. An annoying smirk quirked at his lips. She broke his gaze quickly, trying desperately to hide the heat creeping to the tips of her ears.
> 
>  _Fuck that guy_."  
> \---------------------------  
> Arya tries to run from some of her problems, and runs into entirely new ones.

When Arya woke to the pale rays of morning sun filtering through the heavy grey curtains in her room. It took her a moment to orient herself to where she was. Watching the dust lazily dance in the sunbeam, she surmised that she was back in her room. _Well your childhood room_ , she corrected herself, blinking away the sleep, _It’s still yours though_ , another voice in her head responded. She’d been listening to these two fight a lot lately.

Her eyes adjusted to the dark and settled on the trappings of her youth - fencing trophies that were collecting dust, a Judo belt her father had proudly framed, photos of herself and her family, smiling broadly, frozen in time. Though it was summer, a chill clung to the air. It was a far cry from the stifling, cramped dormitories she had lived in while studying in Braavos, but something about being back in her old room didn’t sit exactly right with her - an uncomfortable itch she couldn’t quite scratch. Everything about Winterfell had felt a bit distant since the accident.

She swung her legs to the hardwood floor. It was colder than she expected. She flinched. _Are you some sweet summer child or are you Northern?_ she thought harshly, forcing herself to her feet. She padded softly to the window and opening the curtains. The rising sun had barely broken the tips of the trees in the Godswood, sending long ghostly shadows across the sloping lawns of Winterfell. A smile grew on her face as she watched the sunshine twinkle off the morning frost.

Her bedroom might not feel like it, but the manor grounds would always feel like home.

She threw on an old sweatshirt and a pair of old runners, finding her way quietly through the corridors. Meandering where her feet took her, she realized she was taking the long way around. She had convinced herself that it was not to wake Bran, who needed his rest more than any of them, but in reality it was to avoid another awkward conversation with Sansa. As she passed the far corridor near her parents room, she found herself lingering in front of the family portrait.

Her father’s face always bothered her in this portrait - it had been painted posthumously, and the artist had completely missed the warmth and compassion that hid beneath her father’s steely surface. Her mother’s face twisted in a simpering smile that rarely, if ever, would spread across her face. Her own likeness was uncanny, she conceded, studying the hollow grey eyes staring back at her.

She remembered the artist studying her for weeks behind the canvas as she lay in the hospital bed, struggling through a gauzy veil of painkillers. Bran, however, was another story - he stood proud and tall at her father’s shoulder. Standing on his own accord in a way she doubted he ever would again. Breaking the uncomfortable eye contact, she managed to descended down the staff’s staircase and with a couple more twists of corridors, found herself out in the crisp morning air. She breathed deeply, letting the cold, clean air sear her lungs, and exhaled a plume of vapour. She smiled before setting off across the lawn at a brisk pace.

Morning runs were the perfect opportunity to try to clear her mind and focus on what was ahead of her today. What had genuinely excited her for the first time in a while - _The Summer Series._ It was tradition in the North that every summer actors would perform a classic play. It was free to the public, sponsored completely by a small arts endowment set up by her great grandfather.

The people of the North weren’t as cultured to the classics the way the people down in the Capital or out East were, but they enjoyed the crowds, the food, and the revelry the festival brought to the usually listless Wintertown. And this year, she was going to perform in it.

As much as the blood pumping through her veins as she jogged through the familiar Godswood distracted her, it didn’t take long before her mind strayed back to her fight with Sansa. Only two weeks before, she had asked if her friend Ned Dayne could stay in one of the guest rooms for the summer, but Sansa refused. She said she didn’t think it was _ladylike_ to have a _young man_ _spend the night_ in the Manor with her. Arya scoffed aloud just thinking of it. Just because Sansa had resigned herself to be the chaste _Warden of the North_ didn’t mean she had to. As if her first year abroad at University hadn’t offered enough opportunity for she and him to “spend the night together”.

 _You haven’t, but that’s not the point,_ an insecure voice in her head reminded her. It was true.

Ned Dayne was polite and pleasant, with fine white blonde hair and dark eyes. He was from a prominent estate in the south, so he seemed to understand the pressures of being from a _wealthy_ family. But their friendship had been so much of a slow burn that she was caught a bit off guard when he asked her out backstage at the end of the year showcase.

“Why?” she remembered blurting bluntly. She regretted it immediately, as Dayne fumbled that she was “err...pretty and talented” She remembered feeling embarrassed by this, but accepted the date regardless. Dayne had taken Sansa’s refusal in stride, having his parents rent him a nice flat near the theater, but the sting of her rejection still felt fresh to Arya.

Up until this point she had made a point to try to be nicer to her sister. Robb had gone south to the capital, and Jon north beyond the wall. Sansa was the head of the household and had responsibilities heaped on her in ways Arya was certainly not jealous of. But _something_ about her pretending like she were a responsible adult irked Arya in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. When she had left home Sansa was as much of a scared kid as she was, but returning, she seemed to be wearing her mother’s face.

As she closed in on the manor’s back terrace, a figure in a housecoat stood, arms crossed, auburn hair rippling in the gentle morning breeze.

“Arya,” She spotted her mother’s face upon Sansa’s once more, except this time burning with a cold fury.

 _Fuck_.

“Morning,” Arya huffed, slowing to a stop, before bending to place her palms on her knees. It had been quite a while since she had run in such cold weather.

“I woke to find you gone from your bed. No word. No explanation. Come in from the cold.”

Arya straightened to meet her gaze, still breathing heavily, as she followed her into the small coat room, “You went in my room?”

“That’s besides the point,” Sansa said drawing her deeper into the kitchen.

Arya made for the fridge to grab a bottle of juice, “No that’s _entirely_ the point!”

“You can’t just go wherever you’d like without telling anyone!” Sansa snapped, settling across from her at the breakfast table. _Mighty rich coming from her_ , Arya thought guzzling from a bottle of juice.

A member of the kitchen staff was quickly upon her placing a chamomile tea before her. She smiled pleasantly, and bid her leave. The kitchen staff member eyed Arya, but she shook her head. She hated being waited on hand and foot.

“The same goes for you. Stay out of my room,” Arya poked around the fridge, but the argument had soured her stomach. She slammed it shut.

“Then tell me where you’re going,” Sansa sipped her tea. Sansa had become particularly good at this game over the years.

“Then let this be _my declaration_. In the mornings I run,” Arya said wiping the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. Sansa became suddenly tense, nervously covering the bit of clavicle showing under her housecoat, pink rising in her cheeks. She noticed her gaze shifted over the shoulder, before settling back on her.

“Back together for all of fifteen minutes and already you she-wolves are at each other’s throats,” a grisly voice rose up over the kitchen. Standing in the entrance wearing a smart black suit was Sandor Clegane, the family’s driver. His hair was still scraggly, but pulled back from his badly scarred face. He had been a veteran of the war her father had fought in - in fact, fighting for the other side, but had eventually pledged to the North, in spite of himself.

Despite his terrifying specter, she rocked on her heels for a moment fighting the urge to hug him. He looked past her towards Sansa, then barked, “Now go get dressed before we’re fucking late, and _I_ _get blamed._ ”

She darted out of the kitchen, grinning broadly at Clegane. He pressed his lips together into a thin line, clearly fighting a smile himself.

_Fighting with Sansa, being yelled at by Sandor. Winterfell was feeling more and more like home by the minute._

\--------

Arya watched the sleepy city roll past out the window, watching with a faint smile as the early summer frost melted to dew. Summer frosts were something she missed desperately in Braavos, where the climate was temperate and warm all year.

“Gods, you’re so quiet,” Sandor muttered from the drivers seat, “you used to never shut up.”

“I’m just tired I suppose,” she responded, avoiding his eye contact.

“Did you miss home?” Sandor asked. His voice was uncharacteristically soft. For once she yielded to his questions.

“I missed my family. I didn’t miss being shuttered up in the house.”

“You say that like you never found a way to get out,” he said slyly, a twinkle in his eye. Of course as a child she had been notorious for running amok. Hiding in the trees with Bran and running away from home frequently - usually to the groundskeeper’s cottage, the godswood, or to Mycah's house. Every time she would run away, Clegane would have been tasked with bringing her back, usually yanking her by the wrist or occasionally, by the back of her shirt.

“I missed you,” she admitted, her stomach clenching uncomfortably. She felt like a small child again, Sandor picking her up from school or fencing practice. Of course her father had been a tremendous man. But he had responsibilities. And in his absence Sandor had been able to step up when necessary.

“All your time out East have you going soft on me _wolf-child?_ ” He growled from the front seat, but his eyes still soft. Her stomach unclenched. Clearly this was enough earnest she had presented him

“I didn’t miss you being a miserable shit,” force filled her voice again and Sandor’s eyes narrowed.

 _“There she is,_  He laughed gruffly, “When are you planning on getting your license? Giving me a fucking moment to rest.”

The idea sat uneasy with her. She instinctively touched her lower abdomen, where she knew a tangle of knotted scars was hidden beneath her billowing grey t-shirt. She had her beginner's permit before the accident. But afterwards...it’s no use to think about afterwards. In Braavos, you don’t really need to drive.

“What are you talking about. All you do is rest,” she said stubbornly, “Get my license and what? Put you out of a job? _Never_. We care about the staff at Winterfell.”

“If they cared about the staff as much as they say they do they wouldn’t have me driving _this pain in the fucking arse_ ,” he jutted a thumb backwards, and a small smile teased on her lips. She could tell he was smiling too. A begrudging smile, but Clegane was smiling. She could hear it in his voice. When he smiled, the shiny scar tissue would pull taut in a way that looked almost becoming on him. His face looked less haunted when he smiled. She guessed hers did too.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a tall narrow building with an old-fashioned marquis. The facade was crumbling, but betrayed a shabby charm. In the entrance alcove, standing by the glass doorway, she spotted Edric “Ned” Dayne, waiting impatiently, looking perfectly uncomfortable in the crisp morning air. Even though he had agreed to come north with her this summer to perform in the summer series play, he was a southern boy through and through, and he stuck out like a sore thumb.

He tucked his white-blonde hair nervously behind his ears, trying to make pleasant conversation with Mycah, but she could see it was still a bit awkward. Mycah was _her_ friend, not his. Some distance away, a tall black haired boy she hadn’t seen before, leaned against the box office window, eyes pressed firmly together. If Arya wasn’t certain it was impossible, he looked almost like he was sleeping standing up. Clegane piped up again defensively, forcing her to look away from the black haired boy, “Are you still with that shit Ned?”

“I call him Dayne. Ned’s my dad’s name,” Arya wrinkled her nose. _Was my dad’s name_. She corrected herself, and her stomach twisted uncomfortably. Clegane continued on, “I don’t know what you see in him. Simple cunt. I’m bored just thinking of him.”

She opened her mouth to refute it but couldn’t find just the right words to say.

“ - Delicate as a flower.  _N_ _o idea_ how you don’t eat him alive.”

Arya quirked an eyebrow, “That’s the point.”

Clegane groaned from the front seat. She could see in the rear-view mirror he wasn’t happy to hear her talk about boys like that. He wasn’t her father, but he might as well be.

“That’s quite enough out of you. Last stop wolf-bitch, get the fuck out,” he snarled, trying to hide a grin. She knew that Clegane wouldn’t dare speak to her like that in front of her sister, but she didn’t mind the gruffness. Clegane parked the car and came round to open the door, “be back for five thirty.”

“Rehearsal ends at five,” she rose to her feet, still a head and a half shorter than Clegane.

“And I’ll be back for five thirty - your sister needs a ride from a council meeting,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “Ma’am.”

She could see Dayne’s eyes widening in the distance. He hadn’t met Sandor yet. And Sandor was... _an acquired taste,_  Sansa had once called him. “What are you looking at cunt,” he called, and Dayne looked quickly away. The tall black haired boy, still leaning against the box office window snorted audibly, “You too, shit-head.”

Sandor rounded the car and slammed the door shut. Arya watched him leave, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She _had_ missed him. So many people she had met at The Crane Conservatory in Braavos were very fake. But that’s to be expected when you’re surrounded by people who pretend to be other people for a living. Sandor Clegane was a curmudgeon, sure, but he was anything but fake.

“What’s that guy’s problem?” Dayne asked, nervously trying to compose himself.

“Clegane’s got plenty of problems, most of them me,” Arya walked up to the boys. Mycah bundled her up in a quick, brotherly hug. Growing up a butcher’s boy, the extra servings at dinner had made Mycah doughy and perfect for hugging. Dayne followed suit, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a hug. She stood there for a moment arms falling limp at her sides. He planted a showy kiss on her cheek, and her face burned red with embarrassment. Looking to the side, Mycah was struggling to restrain a smug smile.

“Oh has the wolf been domesticated? Jeyne’s not gonna believe it,” Mycah scoffed. She flared her nostrils on no accord of her own. No matter how many times she had told Dayne that she hated public displays of affection, he never really got the point.

“Get off me,” she pushed into Dayne’s chest, probably a little too hard. He stumbled backwards slamming hard into the glass doors. Sometimes it was easy to forget that not everyone was a sparring partner.  She laughed nervously, “ _you_ ,” she added pasting a smile on her face. She tried to exude a playful warmth to reel in the tension. Dayne blinked twice and then a smile broke over his face. _Thank god_.

 _“Hey!"_ hollered the black haired boy, eyes snapping open, “Easy on the glass!” He uncrossed his arms, and pushed off the ledge getting to full height, fists balled. He was easily as tall as Sandor, if not just as broad - she had mistaken him for a boy slumped over but clearly he was a man full grown. He was wearing heavy boots, and a mustard coloured coat with a wool trim that betrayed his discomfort with the cold. She could tell by the weight of the coat that he must have been southern too - it was nowhere near appropriate weather for a jacket like that.

“Sorry -” Dayne began, but Arya cut across him.

“Don’t apologize, it was an accident,” Arya said sharply, glaring at the big, sleepy bull of a man. He rubbed his face and cheeks vigorously where a black stubble was beginning to sprout.

“I don’t care if it’s an accident or not. You break it, you buy it,” he grumbled. Arya made for the doors. She clasped the brass handle.

“I buy a door?” she said sarcastically, looking between Mycah and Dayne who were suppressing giggles.

He stopped rubbing his eyes for a moment, groaning “Oh you know what I mean.”

“It’s no use. We’re locked out,” Dayne said listlessly, rubbing his arms. He was growing uncomfortable in the chilly morning air.

“You work here, don’t you?” Arya eyed the black haired man.

“Why else would I be here at the crack of dawn, listening to your riveting conversations,” he muttered darkly.

“Then let us in!” Arya cried, tossing down her backpack. She strode up to him.

He threw his head back, shaking the black hair out of his eyes with a laugh, “You think I’d be out here freezing my balls off if _I had the keys?”_

“It’s not even that cold,” she bellowed. A grin spread across the bull’s face.

“It is actually pretty chilly -” Dayne began.

“I didn’t ask you,” they both snapped at the same time. Dayne stepped backwards and exchanged significant looks with Mycah.

“Don’t talk to him like that!” she turned her heel and walked back to the door, jiggling the brass handle again. Frustrated, she unzipped her backpack and began digging into the contents. She pulled up her wallet and removed a credit card in one swipe. She glanced back challengingly to see him leap up from the windows, eyes wide.

“Are you seriously trying to _break in_?” He said incredulously. His gaze locked with hers, frustration brimming in his sea blue eyes, but something else was there. A challenge. _Just try it_ , His eyes taunted. She quirked an eyebrow. His eyebrows shot up in response. The air between them was thick with tension. Dayne touched her arm gently.

“It’s not that cold, I don’t think you should try to break in,” he said gently. Arya didn’t break the searing eye-contact to look at him. Mycah shook his head, and pulled Dayne away from her. She knew that gesture too well. _Let her get it out of her system._

“I’m not trying,” she said, tilting her chin, before swiftly breaking the bull’s tractor-beam gaze, and jamming her credit card into the slit between the door and the jamb.

“Do you seriously think there isn’t an alarm?” The bull strode across the alcove in three steps flat. He placed one massive palm on the doorjamb, and towered over her impressively.

“Well if the alarm goes off at least someone more useful than you will show up,” she taunted, face screwed up with concentration, licking her lips eagerly as she made a great effort to find the right purchase to make the door swing open.

He snorted. Just as she could feel the hooks begin to loosen, a rough calloused hand encircled her wrist, pulling it back from the door. A jolt like lightning thrummed through her at his touch. His hand felt hot to the touch.

_What the hell was that?_

She dropped the credit card, whipping her neck around to see the unnerving intensity blazing in his blue eyes.

“I’ll call the cops,” he breathed deliberately, his voice husky. The hair on the back of her neck prickled at the closeness of his body, as she searched his furious face. She stepped back from the door, but he didn’t let go of her wrist. She looked between the wrist and his challenging glare, and a sly grin spread over her face.

“And tell them what?” And with one fluid move, she swept at his leg, and his knee buckled. She used one graceful movement and his vicelike grip to flip him over onto his back. He groaned as he hit the ground, “some little girl beat you up?”

“She’s got you there lad.”

She looked up to see a graying bearded man, with kind beady eyes underneath severe eyebrows approaching with a laboured shuffle. Fumbling with a ring of keys, she could see several of his fingers were stumps at the knuckle. He offered the bull of a man a hand as he scrambled back to his feet, jaw set and nostrils flaring.

With a single click the door to the theater swung open.

“My apologies for this one. Gendry gets cranky when he works night shift splits. The boy needs his beauty sleep.”

Once through the warm lobby, the theater sprawled before her - haunting and beautiful. A deliciously familiar smell of dust and disuse, stale popcorn and spilt ale filling her nose. She remembered sitting in the front row of the orchestra with her family once every summer, watching the plays. Sometimes they were historical plays about "The Winter Kings" of old - her distant ancestors, but sometimes they were pretend plays about lands that didn't exist. The old man hobbled to the lighting board and faded up the house lights, revealing the breathtaking vaulted ceiling, painted with scenes from the north. Across the walls, bright red weirwood leaves snaked up pillars and decorated delicate cornices, and on each side of the stage, ornate wolves cast in a shiny black stone jutted out - as if leaping towards the audience.

Arya and the boys wound their way to the front of the stage, sinking into the silver upholstered seats to chat, as more and more familiar faces filtered into the theater. She felt the hum of anticipation in the room, as Mycah and Dayne chatted happily to the older gentleman to their right. She was eager to learn what this year’s production would be, and what roles would be allotted. They had auditioned to perform in the company months ago. This was part of the fun of the festival.

Her eyes scanned the entrance of the auditorium for their director, the famously eccentric recluse Jaqen H’ghar. Jaqen, was in no way a northerner. It was difficult to say exactly where he had come from, as he had performed all across the country, but she assumed somewhere in Essos, by the quality of his accent.

Occasionally her eyes would skim over the theater tech - _Gendy? Gerry? Gumby? What did the old man call him?_ \- as he’d cockily run his hands through his thick black hair, laughing all the while. Watching him, anger began to claw at the back of her throat. _He really thought he can talk to me like that?_ She watched him focus in as the old man pointed out something on the audio board. He began to gnaw at his bottom lip disconcertedly, looking at the board with the same kind of intensity as he had looked at her. The old man gestured to all the actors, and he looked up catching her eye for just a moment too long. An annoying smirk quirked at his lips. She broke his gaze quickly, trying desperately to hide the heat creeping to the tips of her ears.

_Fuck that guy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some table setting. Only gets thirstier from here.
> 
> This is my first published fanfic, so please be gentle. Or don't - I'm a chapter note, not a cop.


	2. This Isn't Happening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You play Ophelia, eh? Doesn’t she die by throwing herself into a river?”
> 
> “I’m contemplating throwing someone in a river right now."
> 
> \----------  
> Gendry gets some short-sighted revenge.  
> Arya breaks something that can't be bought.  
> Both of them are put in a very uncomfortable position.

“Davos you gotta be kidding me,” Gendry said, looking at about two dozen sets of lavallier mics tangled before him, “how many fucking channels is this going to be?”

Davos was still deftly replacing the spent batteries on a handful of mics, “About twenty.”

He knew more than anything this would create the kind of work he couldn’t coast through. The kind of work he’d have to pay careful attention to. More than anything else, it was the kind of work he couldn’t nap through.

He had been working night shifts preparing for the upcoming film festivals, and then morning shifts, and then night shifts again.  _They're called "splits_ _"_   he remembered Davos telling him - a day that started later and ended later. At this point he'd rather be doing the splits, it would be less painful than these brutal double shifts. He was hoping to fast track the remaining time on his apprenticeship had developed a specific talent for grabbing sleep whenever and wherever he could. Davos was getting older, and he couldn't keep up at his breakneck pace forever, regardless of his protests.

He watched Davos carefully for a moment as he struggled to untangle a knot of wires with his stubby fingers. Over the years, Davos had lost several of his fingertips on his right hand - two to electrical accidents when he himself was an apprentice, two to a band-saw accident with his previous apprentice. _If we could manage to get through your apprenticeship without it claiming my thumb, I'd call it an unmitigated success._  Davos had always joked.

Gendry quickly took over the job without asking for permission - it was the kind of workflow you only got from years of working side by side, anticipating each other’s needs. Davos grunted with approval.

“And tell me again why they just can’t shout like the rest of the productions we work on?” He said, looking up to see _that_ girl was staring back at him. A jolt of unease stabbed through him before he composed himself, meeting her with a smirk. _Raring for round two?_

She looked away quickly and something like pride inflated in his chest.

“We’ve just had the soundproofing set for the film festival. It's a dead space. Plus it’s a special request from the director. A bit of an eccentric Essosi - says he thinks it’ll help them speak more _realistically_ ,” Davos huffed.

He was focusing particularly hard on a troublesome knot that had formed, when a soft, smooth voice came from over his shoulder. “I do not think it will make them speak more realistically. It is known that it will make them speak more realistically,” Jaqen said, plucking a lavalier mic from the table, and sweeping lightly down the aisle of the theater. Gendry watched him, feeling an overwhelming sense of exhaustion.

_It must be tiring to be that whimsical all the time._

“Would it be realistic if I strangled the motherfucker?” he whispered to Davos. He stifled a laugh.

“For Shakespeare it’d be more realistic if you poured poison in his ear,” Davos smiled, collecting a handful of microphones.

“Ugh, _Shakespeare?_ ” Gendry glowered, grabbing five sets of mics himself.

“Aye lad, this year they’re doing Hamlet,” Davos patted his shoulder reassuringly with his free hand, “At least there’d be swordfights.”

Swordfights were little consolation - Gendry hated Shakespeare. Everyone spoke nonsense common tongue about moons and stars, until they either fucked or fought, were married or murdered, and Gendry fell into a deep, inevitable sleep. And he’d have to sit through all of it, diligently pressing “channel one” or “channel two” until his brain leaked out his ears.

He and Davos made their way down toward the sides of the stage to lay in wait until Jaqen completed his introduction. Gendry glanced through the group of expectant faces as he listened to the Essosi pompously explain the importance of political metaphor, and the necessity of treating made up lands with the same humanity as we’d treat a story set in Westeros.

 _Cool talk, man. Hurry up_ , Gendry thought, face barely containing his disdain.

The actors sat, eyes glistening, lips slightly parted. His gaze settled once again on the little girl who had judo flipped him. Her mouth was a thin line, but her eyes were full of the same wonder as the rest of them. It was stupid how his gaze kept being drawn to her like a magnet, but there was something so annoying about the way she carried herself. Gendry leaned into Davos before they headed toward the cast, “Hey, I was just wondering...do you mind...mic’ing…”

“The little girl who kicked your ass?” Davos whispered, wrestling a smile, he chewed his lip some more, “no, son. I’m too old to have my backside handed to me.”

Jaqen had produced a black clipboard, “Now when I say your name and your role, you’ll proceed to be mic’d by these gentlemen, our technical team -” he nodded for them to introduce themselves.

“Davos Seaworth, technical director, theater electrician, and this is my apprentice,” Davos began, deferring to Gendry.

“Gendry Waters, the apprentice,” Gendry finished, avoiding direct eye contact and and doing an awkward saluting kind of motion.

“Excellent. Let’s start from the top - the role of Hamlet will be played by Edric,” Jaqen began.

“Ned,” he corrected,“I go by Ned.”

He watched as the slight blonde guy looked excitedly to his left and right as if he had won an academy award. _Gods - what a weiner_. Edric...er...Ned...hesitated, eyes ping-ponging between Gendry and Davos, before approaching Davos. He avoided awkward eye contact with Gendry, as he began to run the cabling of the lavalier microphone through his shirt.

“Ophelia - Arya,” Jaqen continued. The grey eyed girl got to her feet, striding over to line up behind her boyfriend, who still had his own hand plunged down his shirt, struggling to find what had happened to the cable. Jaqen watched her curiously as she waited behind a now slightly panicking Ned, who seemed to have lost the wind-guard of the microphone down his pants, “Please Arya, do not create a bottleneck, see the other technician.”

She stepped up to Gendry, face bored, “Go on.”

He took a long breath. Something about this girl made him very uneasy. How small and innocent she looked, standing in front of him, hands on her hips. He composed himself before feeding her the microphone wire. She jabbed it impatiently down her baggy shirt.

“Ophelia, eh? Doesn’t she die by throwing herself into a river?” he leaned in to grasp the wire dangling from the hem of her shirt, inadvertently getting a whiff of her shampoo. A shiver rippled through him. The smell wasn't necessarily floral, but it was feminine. _Well at least one thing about her is._

“I’m contemplating throwing _someone_ in a river right now,” she said, smiling pleasantly, as if they were discussing the beautiful “summer” weather.

“Is that a threat, _Arya?_ ” he said just as politely, a warm smile pulling at his lips, as if he were complimenting the unflattering grey t-shirt she was wearing.

“No that’s a promise, _Gendry_ ,” She said, voice just as cordial.

He laughed in spite of himself, before making a fist and feigning a cough. Pressing the buttons on the receivers, he waited for them to pair. All the while he could feel Arya’s grey eyes boring into him. He tried to avoid looking at her, but flicking his own eyes upward, he recognized a hungry look in her eyes. Not hungry in a way he was comfortable with. Not even hungry in a way he was...um... _uncomfortable_ with. She was waiting for him to screw up. The receivers finally paired, and he swallowed heavily.

“So will you be doing the honors or should I be keeping an eye out for one of your _servants_ ,” He said, passing the receiver back to her. Her smile faltered, and she forcefully stuffed it into her pocket. This seemed to touch a nerve.

“When I say I’ll do something, you can trust that I, not anyone else, will do it.”

“Well I look forward to that, _your highness_ \- you’re all set - next!” he clapped her on the shoulder, before her jaw set and she stomped away. Gendry felt a plume of pride fan out inside himself. _We’re almost even._

\-------

After mic’ing twelve very confused actors, Gendry sat back at the console, watching and waiting impatiently for his work to begin. The actors stood tentatively around a long table, waiting for direction on the stage. Jaqen stood at the foot of the stage, pacing back and forth, eyes appraising them.

“Are we…” Ned asked softly. Jaqen’s gaze snapped to him, and a smile spread across his face.

“Walk!” Jaqen commanded.

Ned pointed to his chest and mouthed, _me?_

“All of you!” he ordered, waving his hands wildly, “Walk! Around the stage, around the table just as one would walk.” He watched them begin to amble quickly around the stage, “Now begin to think how your character might walk. Do they limp? Do they glide? Do they hobble?”

 _I mic’d twelve people to watch them walk?_ Gendry thought, frustration throbbing at the roof of his mouth. His eyes fell to Arya who had been striding confidently across the stage, pace unchanged. She had easily lapped Ned - _Seven hells, does the little terror always act like she has something to prove?_

“Do they walk as if they have enemies? Do they have a lover? Perhaps they are one in the same?” Gendry watched Arya slow to a halt - her gait slowly melting into something else. As if a mask had come over her, her swift steps became more deliberate, feminine, sensual. There was an eager vulnerability in how she moved - this Arya wanted to be _liked._ Even Gendry couldn’t deny that it felt like he was watching a person transformed. Even if that person happened to be a bitch.

“Excellent, excellent, let the table read begin,” Jaqen began. The cast made quickly to sit down, Ned, pulling out a chair for Arya. Jaqen interrupted, “What are you doing?”

The actors froze. Gendry smiled. _Ok, this might be more fun than I anticipated._

“The first table read is on your feet. One must walk. One must talk. One must inhabit the character voice and body, to earn the right to sit idle with their character. Act One - Scene One - Guards - the rest, fall back!”

Gendry kicked his feet up onto the audio console, lighting the board for channels one and two, listening into the mix. He could hear everything that was being said. Every dark whisper. Every throat cleared. Every nose sniffed. Maybe even a fart or two. His eyes settled on Arya and Ned, hanging back in the shadows, as the ruddy faced boy - Mycah was it - nervously read his script on stage, marching in lock-step all the while.

“Do you think that audio guy,” Gendry’s eyebrows shot upward hearing her quiet whisper, and his fingers flew to the board, disabling the mute button with a dramatic push, “could be more of a cunt if he tried?” her voice boomed through the auditorium. Everyone froze. Her eyes went wide and her script slipped from her finger-tips.

“Whoops,” he called back at her, smiling broadly, “wrong channel!”

He couldn’t see her clearly, but he could tell she was seething. _Good. Advantage Gendry._

Before he could manage to bask in his moment of malice, he felt a tug on his arm, and he was on his feet.

Davos took him by the elbow and yanked him up the carpeted staircase, through the wide balcony and to his office. It was a threadbare square of a room, an old desk with a cheap looking fake walnut veneer, dingy overhead fluorescents, and a peg board laden with cables and cords. Gendry sank down into the stale smelling sofa. He avoided Davos's unsmiling gaze, and fiddled with the cord of a yellowing telephone. He didn’t feel much like being chastised for what he’d just done. It was stupid, but  _Gods_ _was it satisfying._

“Did you coil the cables off stage before the kids got here?” Davos said. Gendry was surprised. He assumed he was going to get chewed out like no tomorrow, emotionally bracing himself for a torrent of expletives. He watched Davos curiously as he loped around his desk. He hated when Davos did this. He was a full adult, twenty-three going on twenty-four within the month. He wasn’t the little boy Davos met when he began apprenticing for him years ago.

“Yes,” he replied. He had not in fact, coiled those cables, but he was in too much of a foul mood to admit that. He slid down into his seat.

Davos’ gaze trained on him from the desk, “Did you though?”

“Yes! I told you I did it and I did it!” Gendry blurted frustratedly. Davos’ slanting eyebrows knit as he appraised him severely. He didn’t respond, he just picked up a clunky black remote and pointed it towards the boxy old television. With a high pitch whine, the television feed swam into view, and they watched grainy live feed footage of the actors across the stage. His eyes darted immediately to the corner where he knew the cables were still tangled, but thankfully, the black cords had blended into the black stage.

“You got lucky this time. It won’t happen again.”

A wave of fury laved over Gendry as he watched Davos hobble back around the desk, “I’m not a child Davos. I care about this theater as much as you do. I don’t need to be babysat.”

“Well I wouldn’t be babysitting you if you weren’t acting like a _baby._  That stunt is going to cost us. I’m going to hear about it. And you’re going to hear about it. And it’s going to put you back months in your apprenticeship and I’m not going to be around forever. What’s gotten into you lad?” he asked, pulling up a spongy orange armchair, and settling with some difficulty due to his bad leg. Gendry winced and the anger that had reared up in his chest fizzled a bit. He knew it was hard for him to settle and get up quickly. _The swelling must be getting worse._

“I’m just so fucking sick of them. The symphony isn’t like this. The film festival - no problem,” he said throwing the telephone cord down, “but every year it’s the same with the theater people,” Gendry grumbled still avoiding his accusatory gaze.

Davos glanced at the muted television, and Gendry's eyes followed, landing on the fuzzy outline of Arya. She was leaning easily on Ned, frowning still.

He had met entitled girls before, but she had her own _driver_ . Not a taxi or a ride-share. _A gods-damned, suit & tie chauffeur. _ Davos looked at him, “Well you better buckle up, this is just day one.”

“That’s the thing! They just come in here and act like they -”

“Like they own the place?” Davos said plainly over him. Gendry wavered for a moment, and he was able to take in just how exhausted his friend looked. Lines creased his face, and more and more grey was creeping into his beard every day. A pang of guilt shot through Gendry again. His job was to make Davos’ life easier, not act like a brat. “They’re entitled little shits yes, _of course_. You’re not the first man to think that about those actors. You won’t be the last.”

Gendry sat forward on the sofa, opening his mouth to talk, but Davos bulldozed past him.

“They flutter in here, say some pretty words and think they understand the human experience, but they haven’t worked an honest day in their life. They get to play pretend while the rest of us -” Davos hesitated again.

“While the rest of us just have to be who we are,” Gendry said sourly. He glanced up at the loudly whining television.

“Isn’t that the right of it lad,” Davos leaned forward as he got to his feet, his lips parted in what looked like half a grin and half a grimace. Gendry jumped to his feet to help the man up. Once upright, Davos clapped Gendry on his shoulder, “Now isn’t it a shame that _who you are_ is an apprentice who has to deal with theater folk everyday. You have to play nice. Or at least pretend,” Davos shook his head, “I’ll take the board for this one. You take a quick nap. But when you wake up, coil the gods-damned cables.”

\-----------

Listening to the deliberate tempo of the table read, Gendry found himself falling quickly into sleep. He awoke to find the actors milling around the stage, speaking in hushed tones. Down below, he saw Davos hobbling toward the stage with the microphone cases piled high in his arms. One spilled to the ground, and Gendry leapt to his feet, huffing down the carpeted staircase, finding his way down the main aisle to pick the case up from Davos before he struggled to grab it.

Davos nodded and unloaded half of the cases to him. One of the cases slipped Gendry’s grip, and he caught view of Arya smirking. Somehow, Gendry managed to somehow catch the case by his fingertips.

This time the actors lined up, understanding the process a bit better, to have their microphones removed. Gendry powered through eleven or so, sleep still clouding his eyes. All their faces seemed to blur together. It seemed as if he had removed Ned’s microphone twice, but that might have just been for how much time the boy spent wrestling with it. At the very end of the line was Arya - she stepped forward, grey eyes glinting with malice.

“What are you waiting for?” she taunted. Gendry drew an exhausted sigh. This girl was never going to compromise, so what was the point in continuing to fight her?

“Unless you want me to put my hands up your shirt, I’m going to need a bit of cooperation,” he explained, turning to open the last case. The theater suddenly felt empty. Davos and the rest of the actors had gone.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said playfully.

_No I would not, thank you very -_

When he turned back to her she already had her baggy shirt over her shoulders, revealing a pale stripe of skin at the hem. Gendry sucked breath audibly. The shirt coiled in a pile as she dropped it to the ground.

There she stood, milky white skin bared in the warm theatre lights. He looked her over head to toe, drinking in the curve of her hips, her toned stomach and her small, perfect tits, still hidden by a black bra. Finally his eyes rested on her face. She chewed her bottom lip seductively. He looked away, breathing heavily.

_This isn’t happening._

“Maybe you can do your job for once and help me?” she said, her voice husky and low. He could feel his cock twitch, straining uncomfortably against his jeans. She stepped closer to him, and from the corner of his eye he could see her walk was the vulnerable, sensual walk from the stage, not her usual calculating stride. She took the case from him, dropping it to the floor alongside her shirt.

_This isn’t happening._

He felt a small hand cup his jaw, soft, but adamant, twisting his face to lock his blue eyes with hers. 

She captured his mouth decisively with hers, her lips hot and hungry. Immediately, his hand flew to tangle in her hair, as she ran her tongue along his bottom lip, deepening the kiss. When they resurfaced, panting, he looked about desperately, trying to find a flat surface he could fuck her on. 

_ Ok.  _

_ So this is happening. _

Stepping back, she began to undo her bra, slowly, it slipped off her shoulders, and Gendry held his breath as it revealed - 

 

 _CRACK_.

A sickening crunch rent the air, and Gendry awoke with a snort. He blinked twice. The theater house lights were up, and he was still sitting in the balcony where had fallen asleep. He leaned forward, before feeling a painful tug at his groin.

 _Well at least one part of that dream was real_.

Eyes darting around quickly, he fished into his pants, flipping his cock up into his waistband. He leaned forward against the balcony railing to see three figures huddled by the stage.

Standing below, was Arya, Mycah, and Ned stood huddled and muttering conspiratorily.  As they shuffled among themselves, Gendry caught a glimpse of what they were commiserating over. Between them, one something black and glittering was shattered on the ground.

“ _Hey!_ ” he called. Arya’s neck whipped around to meet his gaze, she tensed like an animal caught in the head lights. “Don’t move!” He bellowed, but it was stifled against the soundproofing. _Davos wasn’t kidding about the audio set up._

Gendry flew down the staircase, bounding through the wings, until he reached the side of the stage, panting heavily.

“Which,” he doubled over for a second to catch his breath, “which one of you did this?”

Mycah and Ned exchanged sidelong looks amongst each other, and Arya chewed her bottom lip deep in thought. Gendry glanced away from Arya biting her lip. His manhood throbbed in spite of him, reminding him guiltily of the inappropriateness of his dream. He inhaled sharply.

_Gods give me strength._

“I said which -”

“It was me,” Arya said, eyes suddenly hard.

“Arya -” Mycah began, but she cut across him. Gendry leaned down to appraise the damage. It was an original piece made for the theater - that much he knew. How old it was, was beyond him, but he knew it was old, and he knew it was priceless. He gathered it gingerly into his hands.

“I broke it,” she repeated, just as unyielding, holding Mycah’s gaze, “I’ll pay for it, what is it that you said? _You break it, you buy it._ I’ll buy it.”

Her eyes were hard and steely. Gendry didn’t dare touch her, but nodded his head toward the lobby.

“We’ll see what Davos has to say about it.”

In the lobby, Jaqen and Davos were chatting amiably, Jaqen gesturing wildly as he described an intricate lighting set up he was planning. Davos nodded along while rubbing his beard, deep in thought. In the corner, the badly scarred chauffeur stood, fingers fiddling nervously with an unlit cigarette. Mycah and Ned dawdled behind, whispering nervously.

Arya’s eyes darted between Davos, the chauffeur, and Gendry. He tensed, realizing she was more than likely going to make a run for it. He couldn’t grab her without dropping the Direwolf statue again, risking breaking it again.

“Davos? Jaqen?” Gendry said, using the best _"I am indeed an adult"_ voice he could muster, “Would you be available for a word with me, and...Arya...” he drifted off for a moment, realizing he didn’t know her surname. She opened her mouth to speak, before a gruff voice interjected.

“Stark,” said the chauffeur, a smirk crossing his face, “Arya Stark.”

The blood drained immediately out of Gendry’s face. Well...the blood drained out of _other places,_ too. He swiveled his head to look at her incredulously. Now he understood why she had stomped off when he called her "Your Highness". Not quite a highness, but not far off though. He saw it immediately, plain as the nose on her face. She had her father’s serious features - a long face, intense eyes, mouse brown hair, and very little of her mother.

 _Except for the tits, those are not her father’s tits_ , a voice in his head said.

 _This is very much not the time,_ The other, less horny voice in his head warned.

Despite not being from the North, or holding any particular attachment to the Starks, they were pretty difficult to avoid. Their sigil were quite literally plastered all over his workplace. Westeros may not be an absolute monarchy anymore, but the highborn families were still borderline celebrities. Especially after the car accident, which had cemented them as timeless, tragic figures in the minds of the North.

The funeral was televised, but she had not been there. _The two younger Starks were still recovering_ , he remembered the newscaster saying, as he watched the broadcast at the bar. The girl he was dating at the time blubbered loudly into her cup and raised a toast to their recovery. He clinked her glass, but felt no great emotion, except for an uneasy embarrassment at how much his date had been sobbing.

Now though, looking into her fierce face, he wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Part of it was pity. Part of it was shame. Part of it was still the white hot anger. He had a real emotional stew going.

_I have been bullying..._

_I had been bullied by..._

_I had that dream about…_

_“Seven Hells,"_   Davos said, spotting the brittle remnants of the wolf in his arms, drawing him out of his daydream, “Yes, we’ll certainly have a word with Miss Stark,” Mycah and Ned has closed in around her, flanking her like lackeys. Davos’s eyebrows knit, a dangerous frown setting at his lips, “Alone,” he growled. It was enough to unnerve Gendry, let alone those two dorks.

“See you tonight?” Ned gave Arya an earnest puppy dog smile. She gave what Gendry could only assume _she thought_ was a reassuring smile back.

“You did this?” Davos posited. Arya's eyes darted, avoiding his intense gaze.

“I was play-fighting with Mycah. I lost my balance, and fell into it. I must have tripped on some cables -” Gendry's face grew suddenly hot as Davos caught his eye, “I’ll pay for it, whatever needs to be paid, I’ll buy a new one,” she said, her eyes landing on Davos, her glare almost challenging. He could see the frankness had shaken the old man, but he stood resolute.

“You’re out of luck there, you can’t just _buy_ a new one,” Davos said, offering her a shiny piece of the statue to consider in her hands. Jaqen grabbed the severed head of the Direwolf, looking at it with great interest.

“Certainly not, one must know this is an original piece,” Jaqen said, turning the head of the wolf over in his hands, “this is obsidian, the kind the North hasn’t seen in quite some time.”

“Then we’ll fix it,” she said. Her voice confident. No-nonsense. In the distance the chauffeur stifled a bark of a laugh.

“Only a master craftsman could cast this,” Davos insisted, retrieving the piece from Jaqen's hands.

“Then we’ll just have the master craftsman repair it,” she said stubbornly.

“This kind of craftsman is not so easy to find -”

“I said we’ll find one. Just tell me where!” her little fists had balled and she had bristled impatiently. Gendry fought a smile thinking how much she resembled the animal on her family's sigil.

Davos sighed - a frustrated breath rippled through his mustache as he looked to the brass wall placard. Gendry had polished the placard enough to know it read, and understood immediately, dread rooting him to the spot. The statue had been older than he expected. Much older.

“The expert craftsman who can cast obsidian is, fortunately, quite close by. Unfortunately, he currently resides in your family crypts,” Gendry said plainly, “Bran the builder. Your great, great, great grandfather was the last who could mend these - they predate the theater itself.”

Gendry looked at her carefully, as he watched her puzzle through it quietly. The wheels were certainly turning in her little head, but it seemed as if she was at an impasse for what she could do if she couldn’t buy her way out of a problem. It was almost endearing, Gendry thought.

“So I can’t buy it. I can’t fix it. What now?” she huffed impatiently.

There was another moment of silence that fell upon the four of them. Davos was stroking his greying beard. He looked between Gendry and Arya, Arya and Gendry, before he made a soft, decisive hum that Gendry knew meant he’d made up his mind.

“Jaqen,” he began, “we can agree, in good faith, of course, that your company and our theater has had their share of run-ins?”

Jaqen’s slowly opened one eye and then another, “We can agree. It is known.”

“Last year, the arc lights. The year before, the house curtains. Year before that...it’s best not to say what had happened the year before that. Those dressing rooms...poor Gendry has a weak stomach.”

Arya snorted audibly, and Gendry looked sharply at her. Jaqen simply nodded reverently, as if Gendry’s sensitive tummy were known Westeros wide.

“Is it fair to say, that your company should learn to take some responsibility for this theater?”

“It is fair, I should say.”

“I am getting older. Not as quick to the hop as I once was. The lad is a fine worker, but we could use an extra set of hands around the theater.”

Gendry swallowed heavily. Suddenly it dawned on him what Davos was up to.

_This is not happening._

“ _I’m fine, really,_ ” Gendry panted, trying not to let desperation creep into voice. It was not working.

“Nonsense, son,” Davos clapped him on the shoulder, and he swayed for a moment, fumbling to make sure more obsidian didn’t tumble from his arms, “He’s been whining about the workload for months. If Miss Stark would like to continue using the theater in a performance capacity, she can help out on evenings and weekends. What do you say Jaqen?”

Jaqen hummed deeply, pressing his eyes shut to consider. After some time he said, “I think it will be a splendid idea. To learn the ways of those who move in the shadow,” Arya’s opened her mouth to argue, eyes blazing and cheeks red, but Jaqen clicked his tongue, “All men must serve.”

Arya’s stubbornly parted lips closed suddenly and she collected herself - taming the wolfish glint in her eyes until she seemed calm as still water. Gendry didn’t understand what had happened, but it seemed as if she had receded deep inside some shell.

“All men must serve,” she repeated calmly, but a tinge of defeat seemed to have crept into her voice.

“Then it's settled Jaqen, Thursday, after practice - we’ll be starting set up for the film festival next weekend,” Davos said triumphantly, shaking hands with Jaqen, then Arya’s vigorously.

_This is not happening._

“Come now Arya,” Jaqen said, placing a hand lightly at her shoulder. They walked for the entrance,  speaking in hushed tones, the grizzled chauffeur glaring at Jaqen all the while. Gendry and Davos watched in silence until they had cleared the glass doors, before Gendry rounded solidly on him.

“What the hell was that for! We could have just had her pay to fix it!” Gendry shouted, unloading the shards into the counter before the ticket wicket.

“Calm yourself lad,” Davos said, "you don’t think we’re insured? At least this way I got us months of volunteer labour.”

“I’d rather do it myself than do it with her -” he spat. _You’d rather do other things with her_ , the voice mumbled slyly, heat rose up in his cheeks. Davos shook his head, a smile spreading.

“Well you wouldn’t have been in this mess if you had just coiled the goddamned cables,” Davos said hotly. He gestured rudely to him, and stormed back into the theater to grab his things. Sinking into the seat at the console, he started stuffing his notebooks and sweater into his rucksack.

He heard the click of the door behind him and Davos was at his shoulder.

“Oh come off it lad, you’ll get used to some extra help. Hell, maybe you’ll even get a proper night’s sleep!"

 _Not bloody likely,_ he thought, glancing up at the stage, where what felt like lifetimes ago he was searching for a flat surface he could use to - He stopped himself mid-thought. 

_This is not happening._

Gods, he hadn’t been with a woman for a while. Long enough that smelling the wolf-bitch’s hair or brushing her hand could cause all of... _you know...that_.

“After all...” Davos began, wiggling his fingers sinisterly, as if he were pretending to put a spell on Gendry, _“All men must serve.”_

Davos grabbed him by the shoulders and rattled him paternally. Gendry felt vaguely sick.

_This is happening._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry is a bit of a working-class snob, a bit of a grump, but hot damn he is very fun to write for. Had a lot of fun playing with his and Davos's dynamic.
> 
> From here on out, these crazy kids are in this together. Fighting and flirting. Thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> Comments, kudos, whatever appreciated!


	3. The Northstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya strikes up a pact with Sandor.  
> Sansa tries to bridge the gap that's grown between her and her sister with some gossip.  
> Sandor and Sansa share a drink.  
> Arya realizes that Gendry is going to make this harder than she thought.
> 
> A Winterfell centric chapter with some accidental SanSan to bridge that gap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was travelling last weekend. This was written as one half of another chapter, so don't you fret that will be along shortly. Trust me, I've got a plan *Slaps top of this fic* This bad boy can hold so many chapters.
> 
> This chapter's got everything: Bran-tagonism, alliteration porn, accidental SanSan, porno blacksmith...er...stage hand-ing.

Arya fidgeted in the back seat of the town car uncomfortably, mentally repeating the moments over and over again - Davos's gleeful face, Jaqen completely off in space, and Gendry...for some reason his spiteful glare stung the hardest. It would be bad enough having to do manual labour all summer, let alone with someone who loathed her for no discernible reason. Well I mean there was a reason, and it might have to do with her judo-flipping him, but she couldn't help it, it was second nature when she was threatened.

Her summer, her plans, her time - had all been thrown out the window. It felt as if the body was in quicksand - like she was falling indefinitely into something vice-like and crushing. The more she struggled the more it grasped at her. She'd have to ask Dayne if this is what quicksand was like in Dorne.

 _Dayne_ she thought piteously, a pang of gnawing guilt clawing up her throat, _he was so excited for this summer._ The poor boy wanted to know anything and everything about Wintertown, but Arya had to admit she was a terrible tour guide. Just two evenings ago they had strolled through the city center taking in the "sights" while eating overstuffed ice cream cones. Wintertown wasn't really much to look at. They walked hand in hand as Dayne would squeeze her sweaty hand excitedly, gesturing his cone to mundane scenes. Arya had never been to Dorne, but if Dayne's reactions were anything to judge by, she assumed it was a large garden filled with cacti and quicksand.

Dayne was filled with questions about Arya's life, but she found it surprisingly difficult to come up with a satisfying answer she was willing to share. A breezy date eating ice cream hardly seemed like the time to bring up her trauma, even when it was an honest answer.

 _What's your favourite bar?_ It's hard to fake an ID when everyone knows who you are, but Jon -

 _What do you want to wear to the Summer Series Gala?_ I hadn't really given it much thought, it's still a while away, right?

_What do you do around here for fun?_

She wanted to say, _" leave."_

Jon was in the north on a research trip, Robb was in the south as an acting ambassador, Rickon was in The Vale for boarding school, and Bran wasn't really there since the accident. And Sansa...well of course was Sansa. Everything that had made her home feel like home was gone.

Instead, she squeezed his hand uncomfortably, and said, "Hanging out with you, obviously."

A forced laugh parted her lips. His face lit up and he kissed her hard on the lips. Their teeth clanked together and she couldn't help but laugh against his mouth, this time sincerely.

"Will we ever get better at this?" she asked as they broke apart. She noticed a couple of bystanders had stopped to look, familiar faces of the townspeople as eager and fascinated as Dayne.

"Well, I guess we need some practice don't we?" Dayne said, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. Arya felt her face getting hot, as she fought every instinct in her body to run. She doubted she'd ever really get used to _this._

Romance was...so _embarrassing_ sometimes.

"So are you telling her, or am I going to have to do your dirty work," Sandor's gravelly voice brought her back to reality, as they rolled through the gates of the manor. She hadn't even thought how she was going to broach the subject with Sansa - she was hoping to avoid it altogether until it was inevitable

"Please don't tell her," she said quickly, eyeing the manor anxiously as it loomed closer. He pulled the car up into the wide, clean garage, taking the keys out of the ignition.

"Wolfchild, I'm not _just_ your minder - I work just as much for your sister as I do for you. I can't promise you I won't tell her," he said, sounding uncharacteristically like her father. He turned in the driver's seat to look her in the face, "but maybe I can just avoid her until you find a way to tell her yourself."

"Thank you," she said, hopping out of the car without waiting for him to open the door. Sandor shut the driver's side door with a clap. He stood at full, intimidating height.

"But if you don't tell her," he uttered, sounding once again like himself, "Gods dammit, I will,"

\------------

Arya tucked into the rich, but plain meal set out before her before a sharp look from Sansa. She sat at the head of the long, polished table. 

“We’re waiting for Bran,” she said chidingly. The dining room always looked so impressively empty without the usual bodies crowding the table, but it was something she'd undoubtedly have to get used to.

Arya gulped down the first bite of chicken, before lowering her fork, “I thought he was at physiotherapy tonight til’ 8?”

Sansa shook her head, voice grave, “they’ve re-adjusted his treatment plan. I’m going in next week to talk it through with the doctors.”

Arya’s eyes grew wide. What she had learned during her hospital stay was “changing treatment plan” was often a gentle way of saying “giving up on recovery”

“Just...tell me when it is, and I’ll come with you -” Arya began, but her sentence was interrupted by Bran being wheeled into the room by his massive personal support worker, Hodor.

Hodor spoke little, but he was helpful and intuitive - as if he could tell what Bran was thinking before he thought it. More than anything else, he wasn’t afraid of picking up her brother, cradling him like a baby or throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. It was all the same to Bran, who would nod magnanimously to the gentle giant regardless.

"So what play did they choose this year?" Bran asked, spreading a napkin on his lap. 

"Hamlet," Arya said, tucking into the food. _Gods she was hungry, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she just wanted to eat and eat and eat._

"Oh,” Sansa replied, disappointment palpable in her voice, “they just did a tragedy last year.”

"You were hoping for Eddarion the Bridegroom," Bran said plainly. It was exactly what she was hoping for - it was her favourite play ever since she’d been a squealing little girl. But that didn’t make Bran’s newfound tendency of saying what everyone was thinking aloud any less unnerving.

Sansa paused for a moment, “Well, yes. Or at least Romeo and Juliet.”

“Two thirteen year olds fall in love and it causes six deaths, I’d call that a tragedy as well,” Bran stated, clinical as ever. Arya flashed him a grin, but he didn’t smile back.

“I would say tragic, but not a tragedy. You just don’t understand romance,” Sansa dismissed. Bran’s face remained impassive as he absorbed the words. The words glanced off of him, as everything else seemed to do nowadays, but they sure as hell bothered Arya.

“That’s not fair - Bran’s an adult, just because - ” Arya started defensively, on her feet before she could stop herself, but couldn’t finish her sentence. 

Bran turned to her, face placid, “Arya. It’s fine,” she felt herself sink back down into her seat, “Sansa doesn’t understand romance either.”

Arya’s eyes widened and the hair on her arms stood up, ready for the tension in the room to burst at any moment. Sansa bridled for a moment opening her mouth to counter, but closed it soon after. She wasn’t willing to argue with Bran. Her relationship with Joffrey could hardly be described as romantic. 

“Bran’s right, that honour is all yours,” Sansa answered with a smirk, sipping from a glass of Dornish red. 

Arya rose quickly to her feet again, this time tossing down the napkin on her lap, “I’m...not feeling well, I’m going to bed.”

\----------

Not soon after Arya had shut the door to her bedroom did she understand what Sansa’s barb had meant. 

Laying on her bed was a glossy, candy-coloured tabloid she knew could only be _The Northstar_ , and on this particular edition, besides the fashion tips and television recommendation, was a bold headline that read “STARFALL CROSSED LOVERS” accompanied with a candid photo of her and Dayne, laughing and eating pistachio iced cream. This, of course, hadn’t been her first run-in with _The Northstar_ . She remembered listening to other students titter at lunch tables looking over the candid photos of her brothers, or watch them whisper urgently as she passed by in the hallway. When she turned fourteen they often reported Mycah as her boyfriend _(he wasn’t)_ . When they failed to produce photos of the two kissing, they moved on to insisting Jeyne Poole was her girlfriend _(she wasn’t)._ In fact, before Dayne, Arya hadn’t actually dated anyone. Her entire life she had been told she was obnoxious and insolent for romance. _I am whatever you say I am,_ she thought skimming through the makeup tips, _Gods I cannot contour._

It seemed the only good thing to come out of the car accident was the change in the newspaper’s approach to Arya. It seemed they were no longer angling for a scoop about her “lewd love life”, but positioning her as a fragile, sensitive recluse, who must be protected by all costs. 

“So you saw,” Sansa’s voice came from the doorway.

Arya thumbed the magazine, avoiding her gaze, “What did I say about coming into my room when I’m not here?”

“I didn’t put it in your room, I asked the staff to do it,” she said softly. She approached slowly, testing the waters. Arya sat cross-legged at the foot of her bed, still avoiding her gaze. Sansa sank down next to her, “Page 27.”

Arya carded through the magazine until she landed on the cover story - a huge glossy photo of her awkward, tooth-clashing kiss with Dayne, “AR-YA IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE?” the title read. She groaned aloud.

“They love their puns,” Sansa muttered over her shoulder, “Have a go at it.”

“Please don’t make me,” Arya pleaded, making eye contact with an extremely unflattering close-up photo of her eating ice cream, the subheading reading “ _even nobility get nose blemishes!”_

Arya’s eyes darted madly over the article picking up some buzzwords as she went, but Sansa began to read out loud, in an extremely ham-fisted, scandalized voice, “ _Are those wedding bells we hear? Things are heating up between Dorne-born dreamboat Edric (Neddy as Arya likes to call him) -”_

“I do _not_ like to call him that,” Arya huffed, heat already rising up her neck.

“Yes, you do. It’s in the magazine, so you know it’s the truth,” Sansa said, diving back in, “ _Dorne-born dreamboat Edric Dayne (yes, of THOSE Daynes) and the North’s very own porcelain wolf-”_

“Oh Gods is that what they landed on for me?” The heat arrived in her face, which was now beet-red with embarrassment, “They really think _that_ sounds _delicate_ and _damaged?_ They’re describing me like I’m a Gods Damned toilet.”

“Even toilets aren’t as flushed as you are right now,” Sansa said looking up. Arya couldn’t restrain a laugh, even if she was mad at her. It reminded her of the rare summer afternoon when they weren’t fighting for once, when they’d come together to make fun of _The Northstar_ , a classic Stark sister bonding experience.

“Hey! Leave the bad puns to the magazine. Keep going.”

“- _And the North’s very own porcelain wolf,”_ Sansa read through Arya’s audible groan, _“Seemed to have sparked a licentious love affair on their Essosi excursion abroad -”_

“Does their editor have a knife to their throat, ready to draw if they don’t constantly write alliteration?”

“Yes, three writers died last month alone, now stop interrupting,” Sansa replied drily. _"In Braavos both were bitten by the acting bug, but now they’re bringing their talents to the Wintertown Summer Series, where the two are kindling a backstage romance to rival Romeo and Juliet -_ see, it _is_ a romance - _Perhaps joining the two troubled houses, and mending the rift created when Arya’s late father - also named Ned (can you say, “awkward!”)”_

Arya groaned and flopped back onto the bed, smothering a voiceless scream in her duvet, “As if it’s not uncomfortable enough for me.”

“- _Also named Ned - who murdered Neddy’s uncle, Arthur Dayne, during the Great War. Can these two feuding families forgo their fights for this fledgling fondness?”_

“Ok I take that back about the alliteration,” Arya said sitting up, “that one was sublime. We’re sending a thesaurus and bottle of Dornish Red to headquarters.”

“Only if you let me spike it with Tears of Lys,” Sansa said thoughtfully. Arya relinquished the duvet, sitting back up, shoulders still shaking with silent laughter, “ _As official media sponsor of the Summer Series The Northstar will be your source for all the news on the pathbreaking paramours,”_ Sansa hesitated, folding the magazine into her lap. 

“What’s the damage,” Arya said finally.

Suddenly the veil of propriety was drawn again, and it no longer felt like they were two sisters gossiping on a warm summer evening. They were sitting in council chambers, discussing politics as the Ladies of a Highborn Family.

“It’s…” Sansa turned the magazine over in her hands, “It’s bad. It’s not as bad as when they started to call me _Ice Queen_ after I broke with my engagement to Joffrey. But it’s a lot of pressure on you. It’s positioning your relationship to potentially normalize relations between the North and Dorne. And...that’s a lot of pressure.”

“No shit Sansa,” Arya uttered. Sansa glanced at her curiously, eyes studying her defensive face.

“Do you...like Ned -” she paused knowing it made her uncomfortable, “I mean, Dayne?”

“Yes. I like him,” Arya said politely. She tried to put as much feeling into it as possible, but after reading that article, she felt a little too drained to put up her normal emotional defences. 

Sansa turned to face her, “Do you like him enough to marry him?”

Arya felt sick, hot dread fill her up, head to toe. She knew this conversation would come one day, but she hoped that being in Essos could prolong it as long as possible, “I’m...I’m nineteen. We’ve been dating for two months. The idea of me getting married is crazy.”

“It’s not crazy. It’s going to happen one day,” Sansa said calmly.

“So you’re trying to sell me off? _To the Dornish?"_ Arya said disgustedly. Sansa placed maternal hand softly on her shoulder, but Arya shrugged it off

“Of course not, not to the Dornish. Not to anyone you don’t want to marry. I’m just saying it could be politically beneficial if you would consider marriage.”

Arya’s eyes flashed dangerously, “Have you?”

Sansa rose suddenly to her feet, and Arya felt guilt spike up in her chest. _Marriage wasn’t a topic they discussed for Sansa. Romance wasn’t a topic they discussed for Sansa._ What had happened to her in the South was rarely spoken of, but Arya knew the sadistic things that had been done to her haunted her to this day. She kept everyone, save the family, and perhaps a few members of the staff at arm's length at all times. It was quite tragic. To the world, she was guarded, cold, unknowable - if Arya were to be perfectly honest - a bit of an _Ice Queen_. 

“I just came to warn you,” Sansa said sharply, putting as much space between them as possible while still being in the same room, “Warn you about the magazine. They’re vultures and they’ll eat you alive. Whether you like it or not, you are entertainment to these people.”

“I didn’t choose for my life to be entertainment, Sansa,” Arya said, just as coldly.

“No one does. Now if it pleases you, do try to be...less _entertaining_ ,” Sansa said, cold fury brimming in her words, “By the way, Aunt Lysa is coming for dinner tomorrow night, Robin is excited to see you.”

“I fucking hate Robin,” Arya complained, “he’s always trying to touch my tits.”

“Of course Robin’s a creepy shit, Lysa breastfed him until he was twelve. But he’s still family, and I expect you to be out of rehearsal early at 4:30.”

Before Arya could open her mouth to argue, a placid smile settled on her lips, “Ok, I’ll be there, but I won’t be happy about it.”

_For once, the idea of working with Gendry and the technical crew felt more like a gift than a curse._

\----------

Sansa slammed the door behind her, unwinding her painfully tight bun. Her scalp tingled with the relief as she ran her fingers through her long auburn hair that flowed freely at her shoulders. The sun had just set, and the world outside her windows was a dusky grey.

Her father’s study - well her study now - was a broad, richly appointed room, complete with lines of books she wasn’t sure had ever been opened, a well-served hearth, and thankfully, a comprehensively stocked liquor cabinet. Of course, she would come here to get work done or take meetings with advisers or diplomats, but more than anything it was where she could have a moment of silence.

Sansa stopped dead in her tracks, withdrawing her fingers raking through her red hair.

She was very suddenly aware she wasn’t alone. She felt a heat rise in her face that had very little to do with the stifling fire crackling away in the hearth.

“You shouldn’t be here Sandor, you know that,” she exhaled, crossing over to behind the dark mahogany desk. She sank down into the leather armchair opposite him, watching him carefully all the while. He had already removed his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves revealing his well-muscled forearms. She could see that he’d already taken the liberty of pouring himself a generous tumbler of scotch.

“I do,” he sipped darkly from his glass, he tilted the glass towards her questioningly, “I also know you don’t like to drink alone.”

Sansa sighed, glancing between the glass in his large hands, and his entreating face, “Fine.”

As untoward as it was for Sandor to come into her study uninvited, she was glad for the company. As a young girl he’d been mostly tasked as Arya’s minder - she was constantly running off somewhere or starting some trouble. Sansa had barely known the man returning to Winterfell after the accident. He was a quiet man, undoubtedly made that way by the things he had seen in the war. He asked few questions. He answered even fewer, but that was what Sansa liked about him. As a young girl, she spoke too much. Smiled too quickly. Loved to eagerly. And for that, she had paid a terrible price.

Besides, drinking alone always reminded her of her would-be mother-in-law when she was back south for school. The two sat in silence as he poured her a drink from the heavy crystal decanter and nudged it gently across the desk at her. She reached for the glass, and his rough fingertips grazed her own. She withdrew her hand quickly. She could swear she saw his lips twitch before returning to an impassive snarl.

She took a long sip of the scotch, cringing at it’s the hot sting as it slid down her throat. She still hated the taste, but it was more than worth it for the warmth in her belly, and the gentle fog that would slowly fall over her mind. They sat together in comfortable silence, sipping their scotch, all the while catching, then avoiding each other’s gaze. It had become their own discreet ritual.

“Do you think I’m too hard on her?” she asked after some time. She watched his gaze drop to their dwindling glasses.

“I think you were just as firm as you needed to be with her, she did break that obsidian wolf at the theatre after all-” he conceded. 

“She did what?” Sansa spluttered, “she didn’t tell me anything about that?”

“She was supposed to tell you herself,” He grunted into his drink.

“So you didn’t tell me?” Sansa arched an eyebrow, an accusing scowl on her lips.

“I was giving her room to take responsibility,” Sandor grumbled, “But I guess she’s not so keen on that.”

“Only with strangers,” Sansa said bitterly, reminding herself terribly of her mother.

Sandor reached for the decanter and poured another round. 

Sansa’s head was already feeling fuzzy, and her body feeling warm. Sandor leaned forward raising his glass, she leaned in, crystal clinking together, “She can be a cold little bitch.”

“Sandor,” she chastised. Arya could be difficult, but she didn’t like him saying so in ways so brazen.

“You know what I mean,” he groaned.

She reached into the drawer and drew out a cheque book. She wet the fountain pen with ink, “So how much is this going to cost us?”

“Nothing. It’s _priceless._ Your sister is now doing after-hours community service with the technical crew at the theatre,” Sandor said with a snide smile, “Imagine - her - doing manual labour.”

Sansa’s breath quickened, “She promised me she’d be here for dinner tomorrow night to greet The Vale?”

“Sounds like that little bitch is full of shit.” Sandor drained his tumbler and placed it heavily on his desk, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs.

“Tomorrow morning I’m going to lay into her - I swear,” Sansa’s voice was low and lethal.

“That’s a good plan - you just need to remember you’re her sister and not her mother.”

A hot flash of anger reared up in her throat, but her face remained placid, just the way she had been taught. _What right did he have to say that?_ She might as well been her mother, there was no one else.

“And you’re not her father,” she said sharply, aiming to wound

This time he smiled, his tired eyes crinkling as they scanned over her. Sandor’s thick fingers moved to his throat struggling to loosen his tie, “That I’m not, little bird.”

She could feel her heart flutter, as she struggled to maintain her diplomatic guise, “I told you not to call me that,” she breathed shamefully, “Not anymore.”

“No. You told me not to call me that in front of other people,” he muttered, “do you see other people around now?”

She placed her palms against the desk and rose to her feet, her head spinning from the drink. Sansa padded deliberately around the desk, fingers trailing against the polished wood. She leaned back against the desk, eyes pitying, watching him still struggling with his tie, she leaned in slowly, “Oh - let me.”

She watched his confused eyes flick between her hands and her face, as she made quick work of the knot he’d been struggling with. Close up, it was easier to see how he could have been considered a handsome man before the tangle of shiny scars marred his face. _Could have been,_ her mind turned over the words, repeating them to herself to convince herself that his handsomeness was something in the past tense. It was no use.

 _He was handsome in spite of his scars,_ she thought, her mind clouded thickly with alcohol, _everyone had their own scars, Sandor was just unfortunate enough to wear them on the outside._

As she pulled the tie loose across his collar, his eyes softened. She folded the tie twice and placed it in his palm. In one impossibly gentle movement, he placed his other hand on hers, raising her pale hand to his lips. She could feel the tickle of his bristly beard against her soft skin. She closed her eyes and felt his warm lips plant a kiss across her knuckles, breath warm as his mouth lingered against her skin.

 _This isn’t...inappropriate,_ she thought, quite convincingly. Her mind straying to the many dignitaries who had done just the same as Sandor at state functions. But perhaps the hot need pooling between her thighs was maybe a bit inappropriate.

A small sigh parted her lips. At the sound, she felt his lips press again to her skin, trailing feather-light kisses across her knuckles. She nuzzled her hand against his beard and felt him breathe deeply. His mouth opened hungrily, planting open-mouthed kisses into her palm, down to a sensitive portion of her wrist where her pulse was racing. A thrill shot through her body, the kind she could barely remember.

_This, however, was definitely inappropriate._

“Sandor,” she breathed.

“Ma'am,” he whispered, her hand still cupping his cheek, and Sansa snapped back to reality.

She was the head of her household. The seat in the North. She was a lady. And there were rules to be followed. She drew back her hand, not so quickly as to hurt him, but not so slow as to encourage it.

It hadn’t been the first time there were flickers of this kind of intimacy between them. She doubted it would be the last. Her glance might linger too long, his hand might drift possessively to the small of her back as he guided her out of the car. But it was the first time she had let it go so far.

Sansa straightened, making for the door, “I’m gonna go talk to Arya, you know, clear the air.”

“Sansa,” Sandor said, grabbing her hand as she passed, and she halted at his side. “Give the girl a little space - a little slack on the leash. Worst case scenario...you can tear into her another night.”

"Fine. I'll give her a chance," she began moving to the door once again, “Sandor,” her hand fell out of his, limp and empty. She paused for a moment at the door, “If you don’t know how to tie a tie, invest in a clip-on.”

\----------

The next morning Arya returned from her morning jog to find Sansa sitting in the kitchen reading the paper. Face serene as the pond in the wolfswood, slowly stirring a bright orange tea.

“Hey Sans, I don’t think I can make it tonight with Aunt Lysa something came up at the theat-” she began, but Sansa was already standing at full height.

“Oh I know all about the thing that came up,” she began witheringly. Her mother would have been beyond proud. 

“Listen, I can explain.”

Sansa indeed, did not give her an opportunity to explain.

The fight that ensued that morning had been an absolute bloodbath - the type of argument of Stark legend. She wouldn't be surprised if by the time she got home the scene was already stitched into a tapestry in the drawing room. She knew it was an all-time great argument because the staff wanted to flee, but stood rooted to the spot as Sansa tore into her. Averting their eyes, but unable to look away, like they were watching a slow motion industrial accident. 

Arya was pretty sure she left her body at some point during the blistering row. Her main takeaway, however, was responsibility in the community: good. Responsibility at home: better. She hadn’t really returned until a few moments ago, not even when Sandor ended the argument by guiding her by the shoulder to the garage

 _Sandor,_ she thought bitterly, _the bloody traitor_. Looking from the window into the front seat, she opened her mouth and closed it several times, like a fish gasping for water.

“Speak wolfchild.”

“I can’t believe you told her,” Arya whined, surprising even herself with her tone.

“I gave you the whole night to tell your sister. I made good on my promise. It’s not my fault you didn’t make good on yours.”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to ruin the one good moment I’ve had with my sister since I’ve been back,” she folded her arms.

“Well consider your _nice moment_ over. You have to learn to take responsibility for -”

“I know I have to take responsibility, that’s why I’m in this situation. I’m not a fucking child anymore!” Arya exploded, but Sandor remained calm as he pulls up the marquis. This time no one was waiting out front, and the glass doors are propped open.

“You’re right. You’re not a fucking child. I’ve been minding you for too long. It’s time you find your own way home tonight.”

“Sandor - you don’t,” Arya gulped. He quirked his unburnt eyebrow, “you don’t mean that.”

“I absolutely do, wolfch-” he paused, stymied, “Miss Stark.”

Immediately she knew she was in trouble. Arya, Wolfchild, Wolf Bitch, yes, were all fond pet names, but when he started calling her by her surname, she knew he was dead serious. Sandor made no move this time to move around the car to open her door for her. An ominous click was heard as the door unlocked.

She got the hint.

\----------

Unfortunately for Arya, the rehearsal was zooming by that day. She had hoped that by some miracle of space and time today’s practice would keep going indefinitely, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Jaqen had them alternatively on their laying on their backs projecting their lines out loud, and on their feet, performing blocking wordlessly.

Dayne seemed content not to talk with her, as he was roundly injured that she didn’t call him last night. She vaguely remembered him whispering something to that sort, but she took it in more of a “call me sometime” whereas Dayne took it more as a “call me _now_ ”. As they lay on their backs, Arya reassuringly entwined their fingers, and it was enough for a bright smile to return to Dayne's face as he brought her hand to his face kissing it eagerly, and all the talk of who called who seemed to melt away.

To be honest, if there was anyone she wanted to talk to it was Jon. He would tell her that Sansa was being difficult, and find some way to frame working at the theatre as fun, but the cellphone service in the far north was so spotty, there would often be weeks between his texts or voicemails, but they were appreciated when they came.

What she didn’t appreciate was the glowering from Gendry Waters, who spent most of the rehearsal skulking in the wings. It was a relief that she didn’t see him at the soundboard that morning, lest he have another one of his _episodes_ in accidental button-pushing. But Gendry stalking with wings came with it’s own problems. He had thrown open the side stage doors, and begun unloading heavy equipment, and it became abundantly clear the theatre's air conditioning couldn’t overpower the oppressive heat that was seeping in from outside. And he seemed to take special care to wait for her scenes to scrape aluminum piping gratingly against the concrete, or grunt dramatically as he’d deposit some cumbersome piece of stage equipment.

As they switched back to blocking in silence, the sound of Gendry at work in the wings became unbearably loud. Every clink of metal on metal, every exhausted sigh, every laborious, animalistic groan was amplified throughout the theatre. She couldn’t help but glance over to the scene he was making as he carried a massive stage speaker on his shoulder, like a yoked bull. 

The stage was growing unbearably hot - the kind of dozy, delirious heat that dimmed your vision and slowed your mind.

His dark hair was slicked with sweat, which dripped in rivulets down his face to the collar of his t-shirt. She watched the sinewy muscles beneath his shirt ripple as he deposited the speaker with a thunderous _thunk_. Blinking sweat out of his eyelashes, he pulled up the hem of his shirt to mop up his face, revealing a well-defined set of abs.

 _Seven Hells,_ she thought, gaze raking over the sculpted v-shaped lines and the trail of coarse black hair that lead down into his waistband.

Letting his shirt fall back down he sniffed audibly and looked directly at her, slapping the top of the speaker enthusiastically.

“Two more of these bad boys waiting in the second truck,” he said with a mirthless grin, “see ya tonight, rich girl.”

Her nostrils flared, but that only made him smile wider, before turning heel to get back to the truck. Arya watched his back muscles rise and fall through the wet shirt, before averting her eyes back to Dayne, who was busying himself mime-stabbing Polonius.

I suppose the Gods had to give the stupid bull _something_ to make up for that sparkling personality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hand slipped and I did a SanSan. WHOOPS. The main pairing is so very hot blooded that I wanted to lay off and give a bit more of a mature, gentle love, that is oh-so-sesual.
> 
> Took me a while to find my in into this chapter but I'm happy how it turned out.
> 
> NEXT UP: Fighting, Flirting, and then s'more fighting.
> 
> Comments, kudos, bookmarks, all appreciated, I promise I will eventually reply back.


	4. The Apprentice's Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya & Gendry get time to butt heads on their first day as co-workers before _almost_ having a nice moment.

By the end of practice, Arya was glad to see that Gendry had vacated the wings of the stage leaving behind nothing but a heap of poorly organized equipment. As she hopped down off the stage, she spotted Davos standing arms crossed at the rear of the theatre.

_ The old man really thinks I’m going to bolt, doesn’t he?  _

Mind you she had indeed been weighing the pros and cons of simply running from her community service, but seeing him awaiting her, she knew she would have to come quietly. She kissed Dayne briskly on the cheek as they passed by. He shot Davos a glowering look which the man returned in earnest.

“Are you ready to work, Miss Stark?” Davos said, turning away from Dayne.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Arya attempted a cheerful grin, “And please, call me Arya.”

Davos smiled back, this time sincerely, “That’s what I want to hear, Arya, now follow me.”

She walked behind him as he ambled up the carpeted staircase up onto the balcony. Once she reached the top, she inhaled deeply, as she was able to take in the entire theatre at once.

“Is this where I’m going to be working?” she asked, eyes still raking over the exquisite architecture, before turning to look back at Davos, who was heading for a heavy steel door at the back of the theatre.

“Yes, and no. Are you ready for the grand tour?” Shutting the door behind her, it was as if she had been transported someplace completely different. Now she was in the guts of the theatre, the veneer of luxury had fallen away and she was in a very institutional-looking hallway - rich carpeting replaced with linoleum tiling, warm stage lights with green fluorescent overheads flickering down a long, windowless corridor. Arya’s stomach soured, realizing how much it reminded her of a school, or worse, a hospital.

She followed Davos’s shuffle down the hallway, first leading her into a small, miserable looking dressing room. There was a chintzy looking faux-marble counter that ran the length of the room, and a mirror surrounded by vanity bulbs.

“We’ll start the tour with something you would know about,” he grinned, flicking on the lights surrounding the mirror. He combed his fingers through his beard, looking over himself in the warm lighting, Arya hung back as the old man appraised himself, “even in the beauty lighting, I’m not looking so hot these days,” he leaned back and looked over the lights, two of which were burnt black, “Two of them out, mark that down.” 

Arya felt suddenly ill-prepared, “I...I didn’t bring anything to write with.” 

She expected to get chewed out for coming unprepared. She expected the severe old man to yell at her. She braced herself. But he simply dug in his pocket and produced a small notebook, “First ground rule - tomorrow, bring something with you to write on, you’ll need it.”

Davos made to open the door to what she thought was a supply closet but was revealed to be an equally miserable ensuite bathroom, complete with a grimy shower, musty with disuse.

“No one much uses the showers around here - except, of course, the lad. Never met a man so exceptionally sweaty - but I won’t ask you to clean up after him. He made that bed, he sleeps in it - so to speak,” he said with a chuckle, Arya looked over the space with horror. Despite the inability to shake the sudden, unwelcome image of Gendry shirtless, wet, and slicking a small tuft of black chest hairs with soap, she had a hard time picturing  _ anyone  _ showering here. I mean...besides that that one, extremely specific, vivid image. “But the bathrooms will be dead useful when you’re running a twelve-hour shift and don’t want anyone to...ahem...assign blame. They have to be looked after”

Arya’s stomach turned looking over the cramped space, “So you’re saying I’m going to be cleaning toilets?”

Davos’s smiled gently, “Aye. Maybe it’ll be some good motivation for your castmates to aim more carefully this year,” he clapped her jovially on the shoulder, and an uneasy laugh gurgled in her throat, “That’s ground-rule number two - whatever you’re asked to do, you’ll do to the best of your ability,” he made his way to the door, “How about I show you something fun now?”

With some difficulty he lumbered past three identical dressing rooms, mumbling  _ “same”  _ as he passed, pressing his finger-tips to the door, before turning a corner to find a staircase. One set of stairs going up, the other going down. Arya peered down into the dark, but couldn’t quite spy the bottom. Davos had already ascended halfway up the staircase.

“What’s down there?” she asked, making quick work to catch up with him. He hesitated for a moment at the plateau, glancing downward, before continuing on to the next flight.

"That leads under the stage," Davos fiddled with the keys on his ring, "Let’s suffice to say if  _ you’re  _ headed down there, something has gone terribly sideways.” The door swung open before him, “in you go, don’t be shy.”

Arya marched into the darkness and Davos followed her. The door shut behind him and the darkness pressed in around her. The dark had never bothered her much, but it seemed as if in this room her eyes couldn’t adjust. Her hearing became extremely acute, as Davos shuffled away from her. He flicked the lights on, and a room painted entirely black emerged. In the corner was a long workbench scattered with tools and boxes. Opposite to it, by a mostly obscured window, was a large projector, surrounded by stacks of film reels. Arya approached, unable to help herself but to hold up a strip to the light. “Is this for the festival?” she asked. The tiny scene on the film strip seemed to be from an old film, one from long before she was born. A strapping black-haired man stood at the cliff looking out into the sea.

“Goodness no, it’s all on computers now,” Davos’s voice came from the other room. She put the film strip down and followed him into the second room, a stiflingly warm control room, complete with a squat new projector, and a long lighting panel, “I’d be lying if I said I knew exactly how all of it worked," he gestured to the projector, "but Gendry knows well enough, and I trust him. But this -” Davos gestured to the control panel, pressing several buttons deftly, bringing down the house lights and bringing up the spot, "This I know very well."

Arya peered down at his work, and  _ regrettably _ , Gendry had appeared on stage from the wings, eyes upturned to the balcony. She placed a hand on the control surface, gently turning up the lights over stage left. Gendry winced, shielding his eyes from the sudden, blinding light in his face. Davos placed his hand over the button to stop it from raising any further.

“And that brings me to our final ground rule. You should do your best not to break anything -” he hesitated, looking down at Gendry who was waving him down in the heat of the spotlight, “- or  _ anyone  _ in my theatre. Speak of the devil - the lad’s brought the truck around.”

Arya avoided his gaze. She knew she was being difficult with Gendry, but she couldn’t help it. Every time she tried to engage him in good-faith he was just there...mocking her.

He led her out of a small door onto a catwalk that ran the perimeter of the theatre, hanging over the balcony, “I know he can be ornery, but the boy works hard. I swear if he’d ever had a good night’s sleep, you two would get along famously.”

_ That’s...that’s debatable. _

“He just takes some time to warm up to new people,” the hair on Arya’s back prickled as she watched him descend a ladder down into the balcony. She was used to that being the disclaimer  _ she  _ came with, not anyone else.

“And how long does it usually take for him to warm to new people?” She asked following him down the ladder. For a man who was clearly ailing, he still managed to move through his spaces fairly confidently.

Davos, already on the ground, offered her a hand as she disembarked, “Well, I’ve known him six years now, and I’m hoping he’ll warm to me  _ any day now _ ,” he said with a booming laugh. This time Arya’s couldn’t suppress her laugh either. 

_ Maybe the old man is alright. _

\----------

Arya made her way through the side of the stage doors to the truck, and just as Gendry had promised, it was stacked fat with two more amplifiers and a truly unspeakable amount of equipment. Davos had busied himself in the wings, cataloguing, and untangling the mess of equipment that Gendry had made. To Arya’s great displeasure, Davos had insisted on  _ “supervising  _ ” as it had been some time since he’d had  _ two  _ able-bodied young volunteers helping unpack the truck, leaving her out there with  _ him. _ As the night began to press in, the air was still sticky with humidity, but at least the heat had begun to subside, and a breeze had rolled in.

“How was practice?” Gendry asked through a truly impressive amount of sandbags. Arya, who was trying to figure out how exactly to lift one of these speakers, froze, her stomach flipping uncomfortably. 

_ What exactly was he playing at?  _

She glanced towards him, for some kind of clarification of his intention, but he simply clapped the dust away from his palms as he returned to the truck for more, completely unreadable.

“You were there, you tell me,” She said coolly, trying to keep her distance, but her eyes lingered on him.

“If you didn’t notice I was working,” He said with a ripple of frustration, now busying himself in a deep chest of cables. 

_ Oh, I noticed _ . 

And by the number of times he had wiped his face with his t-shirt revealing once again his gods damned perfect abs, she was pretty sure he  _ noticed her noticing. _

“Plus I wouldn’t know the first thing if it was good or bad, I’m not an actor,” his voice painfully self-defeating.

_ And there we are.  _

She gripped one of the edges of the cumbersome amplifiers, and to her surprise, it lifted up off the ground quite easily - it was  _ hollow _ . She smirked, “If your loud grunting and groaning was any indication I’d say you’re actually pretty good at acting yourself”

“You try moving those speakers!” He shot back, before resurfacing to see her holding one aloft over her shoulders. Her eyebrows shot upwards.

“Well good job. I guess,” he said, his voice defensive all over again. He slammed the chest shut and began rolling it into the wings. Arya followed behind him, up the ramp onto the loading dock, waddling under the weight of the speaker. 

A strong wind pushed at her back and she felt her footing slip from underneath her. The huge loudspeaker suddenly was pulling her backward in slow-motion toward the ground. But just as her world had gone akimbo, she felt two strong hands circle around her waist. Her eyes met Gendry’s, his ocean coloured eyes flashing soft concern.  _ Were his eyes...always that blue? _

“Th-thanks,” she said, cursing her stutter, trying to steady her heavy breathing. Davos, for once, glanced up from his clipboard and cleared his throat. Gendry’s massive hands were still lingering on her waist (perhaps a touch too long) flew to the speaker which he patted reassuringly. The softness that had flickered across his eyes was gone, replaced with the same boring smugness.

“No problem,” he said gruffly, “That’s a seven thousand dollar speaker. If you were carrying sandbags, trust me, I would have let you fall.” 

Arya smirked, somehow seriously doubting that was the case.

\----------

To Arya’s horror, Gendry actually made good on showering at the theatre. He had disappeared for some time and returned, changed into a clean pair of jeans, and a bright green graphic t-shirt with the logo of White Harbour on it. 

“I can’t believe you actually shower here,” Arya said, voice filled with disgust as he joined her on the balcony. Under his left arm was a tiny toolbox.

“A shower’s a shower," he shrugged.

_ Sure, if you want incurable athletes foot to match that foot-in-mouth disease you’re already rocking.  _ But she couldn’t argue with the fact that he smelled noticeably better, and was in a much more agreeable mood.

"Sorry, if I don't insist on a clawfoot tub, Your Highness,” Gendry set down the toolbox roughly, "or should I say M'lady."

Quickly, Arya reached across the desk and landed three punches against his bicep, and Gendry sucked air through his teeth, grimacing. Over his shoulder, Arya spied Davos glaring, as he held up three stumpy fingers. 

_ Ground Rule Three. No breaking his apprentice. _

He rubbed his arm gingerly, "Ok, ok, easy there Stark."

_ Stark.  _ She turned it over in her head. No one had called her just by her surname...ever possibly. Miss Stark. Lady Stark. Arya Stark. Maybe because there was never a time when someone wouldn’t have to ask  _ which one. _ But be called just Stark felt odd, but empowering.

“So here you are...you’re going to be sorting the screws,” Gendry said opening the tiny toolbox and removing two pans with earnest, “These ones, over here,” he picked up a fat, stout screw in his left hand, before placing it in a square steel box to the side. “these ones over there,” he gestured to a pan of tiny, thin screws, fumbling to grasp it between his fingers and his thumb, before resigning to point to the opposite box, “I’d do it myself, but...my fingers are too big for these little guys,” he said, splaying out his large fingers demonstratively.

She picked up a tiny screw he was struggling with and looked up at him with an intense sinking feeling.

She watched him fidget with the loops on his tool belt uncomfortably, “What?” he asked sheepishly. As annoying as he was, there was something sweetly boyish about his uncertainty.

She tipped her hand and let the screws fall back into the box, “Well I...just from the way Davos made it sound like there was a lot more work than sorting screws.”

“Sorting screws is essential. You never know when you’re going to need a good screw,” He said with a smug grin. The corners of her mouth twitch, “You think you’re too good to sort screws?”

“No, I just…”she drifted off. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. It was either this or cleaning toilets.

Gendry folded his arms and raised an eyebrow, “When I first started I was sorting the screw’s screws.”

Arya looked between him and the screws and blinked. It took a second to settle in that he was attempting a joke.  _ Oh gods, I think he thought that was funny  _ .

“What?” she replied, trying to hide the pitying look on her face by beginning to sift through screws and plopping the at a dramatic height into the pan with a satisfying metallic thunk.

“Like imagine if a screw...had its own tinier screws…” his face was screwed up with earnest anticipation that hung in the air for a moment. He turned away, embarrassed, “It doesn’t matter. When you start out you do stupid shit. Then you get better at it. Then you get to do the fun stuff.”

“There’s fun stuff?” She called after him, but he was already halfway up the ladder to the catwalk, when he thought she was out of earshot, she swore she could hear him mutter, “Fucking actors.” Arya looked down and for some reason, she couldn’t stop smiling.

The work was repetitive and easy, but there was something very satisfying about getting into the flow of a mindless task. Occasionally she would gaze upwards, to see Gendry walking with big, uneasy steps as he secured lights to the lowered rigging. Then it dawned on her.

_ He’s...he’s scared of heights. _ Of course, it shouldn’t be funny. Everyone was scared of something. But  _ Gods,  _ it was. Something about the strong, conventionally handsome, smug man like Gendry Waters, swaying uncertainly, like a large toddler tickled her just right. After some time, he eagerly returned to the balcony, rubbing his clearly sweat-slicked palms onto his clean jeans. He bounded over to her, attempting to look cool, and failing, badly.

“Glad to be back on solid ground?” she said cuttingly.

Gendry’s mood immediately soured, “What do you mean by that?”

“I just mean, it looks like you’re still getting your sea legs up there,” she replied, trying to diffuse the tension. It didn’t work. She turned back to the small box of screws, “I finished sorting these.”

“Ok, what do you want from me?” he said, touchy once more.

“I don’t know, tell me what I should be doing next,” her voice raised. He raised to full height, his jaw setting frustratedly.

“You want something to do?” he chewed on his lip, as she watched an idea dawn over him, “We need fifteen cookies, can you do that?”

_ Cookies? _ Arya hesitated for a moment, the strange request rattled around her brain for a second before she clued in, “Chocolate chip or oatmeal?”

A calm washed over his face, and he smiled broadly.

“Surprise me.”

\----------

Gendry sat in the plush orchestra seats, self-satisfied in fooling the little know-it-all for once. 

Sometimes a cookie is,  _ of course, _ a cookie. A biscuit. A sweet. But a cookie in stage terminology is also something that obscures a light to give it shape. This way, at least she’d be out of his hair for thirty minutes at a grocery store, and after his dinner with Davos, he’d have a spot of dessert. Everyone wins.

He watched as Davos approached from a distance, his lunchpail in hand. The older man unzipped the bag and produced two sandwiches in neat wax paper.

“Marya made your favourite - pastrami with the coarse mustard,” he announced, offering Gendry the sandwich.

Gendry sighed deeply reaching out for it, “tell your wife she’s an angel from seventh heaven," but Davos swatted his entreating hand away.

“But if you keep acting like a little shite, I’m sure your apprentice would like to eat it instead of you,” Davos warned. Gendry’s jaw set, and he knew exactly what was happening.

“She’s not an apprentice. I asked her to get cookies and she asked _chocolate chip_ _or oatmeal,”_ he crossed his arms childishly, turning away from the older man.

“Well did you tell her what they are?” Davos asked, chewing his sandwich thoughtfully.

“No,” Gendry said pointedly, he avoided Davos’s eyes, “She acts like she knows everything anyway, so might as well let her learn the hard way.”

“Then how do you expect someone to know something if you don't teach them?” Davos said. Gendry knew when his mentor was walking him obtusely to a point, and he didn’t much care for it, “When you’re running this place you are going to have apprentices who ask stupid, annoying, inane questions, and you’re going to have to answer them. So to me - this is a  _ test  _ .”

Davos relinquished the sandwich to Gendry, and he tucked in with great gusto, “A test?” he said thickly through a large mouthful of lunchmeat. Davos hummed.

“The last one you’ll have to pass.”

Gendry gulped down the sandwich, it hanging painfully in his throat, “you can’t be serious.  _ This  _ is what will make or break it for me?”

Davos nodded.

“Do you hear that Davos?,” Gendry put his hand to his ear, “That’s the sound of no one bothering me for once, if you’re really quiet you can hear it,” a silence fell between the two, but the echoing sound of footfalls and clatter of tools rang out from above. Gendry scanned the catwalk to see exactly what was making that sound. It turned out to be more of a  _ who. _

“She’s willful that one,” Davos smiled, eyes brimming with fatherly pride, “Tell her not to do something and immediately that’s the one thing she has to do.”

“Yeah, tell her that under no circumstances can she pay my rent,” Gendry snarled, one his feet once more pacing the balcony, eyes narrowed above.

“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Davos said lightly, brushing crumbs out of his beard, “Looks like she’s not tied off, that one’s all yours.”

“Hold my sandwich,” Gendry passed his sandwich to the old man, and with a deep breath made his way up the ladder, palms slicking with sweat the whole way.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He said, approaching cautiously, his own feet a bit unsteady.

“I’m replacing the cookies,  just like you told me,” she leaned back from the light to catch a glimpse of him. He could have sworn he saw a grin flicker on her face when she saw him shaking. He grasped the side of the catwalk for support.

“One. You need to be wearing gloves, unless you feel like donating your fingertips to the theatre, because they’re going to melt right off,” He huffed, “And two. You need to be tied off. Just because I hate you doesn’t mean I want you dead,” he called back frustratedly.

“You  _ hate me, _ ” she teased sincerely, pulling away from the light to get a better look at him, he felt suddenly naked and wobbly under her surefire gaze.

“I do not!” He barked, admittedly, louder than he meant to, “I mean...I do not,” Gendry stepped tentatively closer to her, “Fuck you’re not even wearing a harness,” Gendry pushed his hands through his hair. If anyone ever saw this outside of him and Davos they’d be royally fucked.

_ “A harness?”  _ she laughed, leaning back into her work with earnest.

“A fall protection harness, you pervert,” he said defensively, leaning across the light to look at her.

“I wasn’t even thinking about that, so that makes  _ you  _ the pervert,  _ pervert,  _ ” she paused, “Also how was I supposed to know I was supposed to be wearing a harness, you never told me?"

Gendry breathed deeply again and pinched the bridge of his nose.  _ She had a good point. And he fucking hated that she did. _

Quickly spanning the distance between them, he grabbed her roughly by the waist moving her in towards him. Her breath hitched in her throat with a gentle “oh”. He threaded threading the belt around her waist, tracing it with his hands before, pulling the buckle tight. They stood there for a moment in each other’s personal space, eyes locked intensely, daring the other to move.

Gendry clipped a carabiner to the railing, pulling the line taut. He raised an eyebrow. Arya had won.

“And by the way, I don’t know what they call these in the south, but these are Gobos,” it felt like a gut-punch, but the fucking wolf-bitch was absolutely right, “These are cookies,” she dug in a deep pocket and tossed him a cookie in a plastic wrapper. He caught it against his chest. 

_ Oatmeal. This woman is a psychopath. _

“Both of you, down from there, we’ll deal with the cookies for the weekend,” Davos called from the orchestra floor.

Davos made sure they stayed at opposite ends of the theatre for the remainder of the evening, Gendry hammering intently at the perforated screen frame, and Arya cataloging old equipment in a heavy road case.

By the end of the night, Davos reappeared holding a handful of papers with a poorly printed schedule on it. Davos was talented at a great many things. He could rig a light show or solder a screen or build a set with such detail that no one would doubt he’s a master craftsman. But the man could  _ not  _ get a hang of word-processing.

“I’m not good at the computers, not like you kids anyway, but this is roughly what we’re looking at leading into the film festival,” Gendry looked over the schedule. 

“You did a great job,” Arya said reassuringly the old man. Gendry cast a sidelong glare at her, and Davos pat her shoulder paternally.

_ Afternoons on Weekends. Evenings on weeknights. All of them with this brat. _

\----------

In the lobby, Gendry walked ahead of Davos and Arya, who were chatting brightly behind him. It pained him to admit that it irked him to see the shining Davos had taken to her. Maybe it was because he had never had a proper father figure. Or maybe it was because Davos had found a way to have a regular conversation with the girl when either of them could barely go five minutes without being at each other’s throats.

When he reached the end of the hallway, he shut off the lights, prompting them to make their way to the door. He hated to be left in the dark in the theatre. Aside from heights, open water, and closed spaces, he’d say it was his number one fear. As they crossed through the glass doors, it became clear that the stifling, muggy weather had broken, and a summer storm was on its way. Gendry turned up his collar against the cold wind, and he could have been certain he saw Arya roll her eyes. Davos locked up behind him, before clapping him and Arya paternally on the shoulders, “Good work tonight, both of you. Maybe a little less fighting, but that will come with time. Same time tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow!” Gendry said with a shit-eatingly pleasant smile as he peeled past Arya, toward the dark parking lot. Jiggling the handle to his decade-old sedan, he climbed into the seat that fit him like hand in glove. Or leg in pant. Whatever your flavour of metaphor is. His car was a fucking mess, but it was  _ his _ fucking mess. Ask him to find a receipt from last Winter, and he could do it. Right here. Right now. He looped back around the theatre, waiting for the red light to turn green. Arya was standing, cross-armed, wind beginning to whip rain under the marquis. 

He knew all he had to do was drive past her. Go home. Have a nice sleep for once in his life. But a gust of cold wind rippled against her hair, and she shivered. A drunkard staggered out of the bar next door, swaggering wildly across the sidewalk. His gut clenched.  _ For fuck’s sake, you bleeding heart don’t you dare ask her if she wa- _

“Hey! Do you need a ride home?” he had already rolled down the window to ask her.

“Keep driving stupid bull,” She growled, as large raindrops began to plonk down onto her grey sweater.

Traffic had begun to pile up behind him as the light turned green. He threw on his hazard lights and pulled over.

“I’m not going to leave you out here. It’s dangerous,” Gendry said protectively as raindrops began to fall into his car.

“I’m dangerous too.”

“Yes, you are. But so are muggers, or rapists, or -” Gendry struggled to think of what else might be dangerous in the night, “ _ or roving packs of wolves.  _ And I’m not getting blamed when you get yourself killed.”

“Wolves? You didn’t see any wolves,” she laughed, “There are no wolves in the city.”

“I did too. They were eating out of a dumpster.”

“A dumpster? I’ve never seen a wolf eat out of your car,” She said, clearly impressed with her own joke. The sweater she was wearing had begun to saturate with raindrops.

Gendry let off the brakes and threw his signal on, “Ok fine, I guess you don’t need a ride.”

“Wait,” She stepped forward, unfolding her arms. Her body language was still cautious, but she reached one hand tentatively toward the passenger side door, before freezing. She produced her cellphone and began to dial, just two numbers, before reaching for the door handle.

_ Oh shit, she’s actually going to let me drive her,  _ he thought, suddenly panicking. Gendry quickly scooped up the fast food bags and gas receipts that cluttered the seat.  _ It had been a bit since he’d had a passenger.  _

Arya rolled her eyes dramatically.

She settled into the passenger seat and buckled her belt. Gendry let his foot up off the brake, and her hand flew to her phone, reaching up to show him what was on the screen.

“I dialled 9 and 1, do anything shady, and all I have to do is press one more number.”

Gendry hammered on the brakes once more, he and Arya lurching forward. He fished around in his own coat pocket, “If it seriously makes you feel better, you can take my knife,” he unfolded the knife, gingerly grasping the blade, offering her the hilt.

She maintained cautious eye contact as she grabbed the hilt, eyes softening to him as she held the blade. The ghost of a small smile spread on her lips. The energy in the car was still too tense to drive anywhere, so he did what came naturally in this situation - he tried to make a joke. 

_ “Hello, police, yes, I’m being car-jacked by a little girl,”  _ Gendry said into the phone he made with his hand she laughed.  _ The little wolf-bitch actually laughed!  _ He thought, chest swelling with a warm pride,  _ “Yes, she has a knife - no - yes - I gave her the knife. Why? Because I’m a -  _ ” he covered the receiver with his hand, and nodded to Arya, “what is it that you call me?”

“Stupid bull,” she said, a smile pulled taut at her lips, the knife still pointed at him.

_ “Because I’m a stupid bull. Oh. ok thank you, officer,”  _ Gendry hung up his imaginary phone, "the officer said I’m an idiot for giving you that knife in the first place."

"The officer is not wrong," Arya said, twirling the knife in her fingers. She looked as if she was stifling a laugh. The mood had lightened considerably.

"So where are we going?" Gendry signalled back into traffic putting on his wipers to combat the tattoo of rain on his window.

"You actually don't know where Winterfell Manor is?" she asked incredulously, disdain seeping back into her voice. 

_ And the World Record for the longest pleasant conversation with Arya Stark goes to - Gendry Waters. Two minutes! The crowd goes wiiiiild. _

Of course, Gendry knew where Winterfell Manor was, it was kind of hard to miss, "Of course I do, I just didn't know if you were staying with Ned Dayne...or...."

"I’m staying with my family. And Ned was my dad's name," Arya said dispassionately.

"That must make things awkward, you know with -" Gendry drifted off mid-sentence, immediately regretting the image of her wild with lust, breathing Ned's name frantically into his dumb pencil neck.

"A bit, yeah," she said, turning away from his gaze to watch the city out the window. The implication made Gendry’s stomach felt hot and greasy - as if he’d just eaten bad coleslaw from an iffy Northern BBQ joint. "I just call him Dayne. I find it's easier that way."

"Dayne sounds too cool for that weiner,” he said defensively, “What about Ed. Or Neddie, or Neddie-Weddie," He said, turning the corner smoothly down the main drag of Wintertown. He braced for the inevitable blowup to follow. 

_ Don’t talk about him like that!  _ He could almost hear her voice shriek. There was a silence between them - the only thing that could be heard was the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the patter of rain against the windows.

“Steady-Neddie,” she mumbled. Gendry’s eyebrows knit curiously. He surveyed her cautiously at a red-light.

_ That was... unexpected. _

“Ned-ical Malpractice,” Gendry offered. She toyed with the knife for a moment, twisting the tip lightly against her finger, before dropping it to the console. It was - what Gendry assumed - a gesture of goodwill.

“Higher Ned-ucation,” Arya tossed back. Gendry met her eye from the corner of his. 

_ She almost looked like she was having fun. But it couldn’t be.  _ Gendry knew she was incapable of that. And yet...there she was. Her soft, contented face disappearing and reappearing in the slow strobe of the streetlights passing above. It was almost hypnotic. As they bantered back and forth, coming up with name after absurd name, it was almost fun. He barely had remarked the neighbourhoods change from urban to affluent. 

“Driver’s Ned,” Gendry suggested finally. He hadn’t noticed he had turned into the tall Manor gate and was fast approaching the vast building ahead of him.

“That doesn’t count, I already said  _ education,  _ a while back,” she chuckled warmly. Gendry turned to meet her face, eyes straying from the long winding drive completely. When she laughed like this she almost looked pretty. 

“Does too I -” from the corner of his eye Gendry spied something ghostly white ambling into the middle of the drive ahead of them. A bolt of pure terror thundered through him, as he hammered on the brakes with his entire body weight. He flung a protective arm out over the small figure in the passenger side, bracing for impact. The knife hurtled into the dashboard, plunging into the plastic with a satisfying  _ thwuck  _ sound. 

Tires squealed against pavement, urgently willing it with everything in his body to come up short. The car lurched to a final halt. His breathing barely had time to regulate before he made eye contact with it - a hulking wolf standing stock still, muzzle bloody, eyes narrowed at the car as if it hadn’t just been barreling toward it.

Gendry sighed deeply, catching his breath, “What did I tell you about wolves, Arya?” Gendry laughed. Looking over though, Arya wasn’t laughing. She pushed against his arm which was still lying protectively against her chest, and he moved it away, suddenly self-conscious. Her hands flew to her seatbelt, and with a click, she was unbound.

“That’s not a wolf. That’s my dog, and I haven’t seen her in years,” she said breathlessly, hands scrabbling for the door lock.

“That’s a wild animal Arya, It’s bloody, it just  _ killed  _ something. I’m not letting you go out there to have your throat ripped out,” Gendry bellowed back, pummelling the child-lock on his armrest. Arya locked eyes with him, as intense as the first time they’d met.

_ “You  _ almost killed something - and that something was all three of us. If you weren’t too busy making fun of my boyfriend,” hand dramatically wrenching at the door to no avail, “Why - isn’t - it opening?”

“Child-lock. Also -  _  If I wasn’t so busy making fun of your boyfriend?  _ ” Gendry seethed, “I wasn’t the only one -  _ miss Higher NED-ucation _ .” 

Without breaking the glance she tore the knife from the dashboard and had it at pointed at his ribs. Both their chests were heaving as they leaned closer and closer to each other, breathing still ragged. He felt the point of the knife rest gently at his abdomen, “ _ Do it. I dare you,”  _ he whispered, so close that it rippled against her hair.

The air was so thick with tension it had sent Gendry’s imagination spiralling wildly out of control. He was certain the girl before him was either going to murder him, or climb into his lap, run her hands through his hair, and ride him raw. Perhaps both. He was in an unending limbo between being scared and aroused, and if his cock straining at his jeans was any indication, his body was planning for either danger accordingly.

She lowered the blade slowly, but her gaze didn’t soften a bit. Once again his imagination was wrong. He unlocked the door. Her hand flew to the handle, eyes still trained on him, waiting for some  _ catch _ . Finally, after a moment of stillness, she opened the door, backing out of the car, knife still pointed at him all the while. As soon as the door clicked shut, he looked nervously between the girl and the wolf. Her eyes still fixed distrustfully on Gendry, the wolf’s eyes hungrily on her, and his on the monstrosity before him - as if he was a participant in the world’s strangest Mexican Standoff. 

The sound of the door closing must have startled it because it leapt to into a crouching position, teeth bared, bloody muzzle snarling. Gendry looked desperately between the two and just as the beast prepared to pounce at Arya, he hammered on the car horn with a prolonged and earsplitting  _ HONK _ . The wolf let out a surprised whimper and bolted into the darkness. Gendry could finally breathe as he watched Arya chase after it in front of the car, peering into the darkness. She slammed her free hand surprisingly hard into the hood of his car.

Arya rounded on the driver’s side window.

“You asshole! I’ve been looking for her for years!” a cry tore at her throat. Gendry rolled the window open a crack.

“Well, you’ll be glad to have your jugular for another year running,” Gendry said heatedly through the crack.

An exterior house light blinked on in the distance. One, and then another, like dominoes or stadium lights, the exterior of the house lit up.

“You’ll be lucky if next time you see me  _ you  _ still have your jugular,” she hissed brandishing the knife, “and keep my boyfriends name out of your mouth.”

_ Ned. Right. It always circles back to Steady-Neddy. _

“Don’t you mean “keep your father’s name out of my mouth?,” Gendry said, acid in his tone, “How does it feel to moan your dad’s name into your boyfriend’s neck when you fuck?” 

If he was aiming to hurt -  _ bulls-eye.  _ Her nostrils flared madly and she began to grab at the open crack in the window. She kicked wildly at a tire and the car shook. A tall female figure appeared silhouetted in the door, then two, then a third and fourth. A light flicked on revealing the small crowd - a willowy auburn-haired woman, a weasely older lady, a waifish child, and pushing through the crowd, was, who he assumed to be that driver-bodyguard fellow that was always following her around.

“Do - you - kiss - your - mother - with - that - mouth,” she said, every word punctuated with a solid kick to the car. 

“Jokes on you - my mother’s dead,” Gendry said coldly. The rage on her face faltered, as she stood breathing heavily at the window. He tore his eyes away from her to see that the man that he thought was her driver was someone else entirely - someone  _ far  _ more familiar.

“I’ll come, I’ll come. Sandor, just let me -” Arya said, not bothering to look at who had grabbed her wrist.

Gendry and Jon Snow locked eyes, instant, curious recognition buzzing between the two.

“Arya, it’s -” but at the sound of his voice, her eyes widened. She spun on her heel and had flung her arms around the small man’s neck, him spinning her round in a picturesque hug. Gendry watched puzzled at the scene unfolding. His old drinking buddy at  _ Winterfell _ ...the little wolf-bitch hugging a bastard? After a moment, she relinquished him and began walking steadily toward the house, beaming proudly. She dragged Jon by the hand, in a way that made his stomach clench miserably. 

Jon spared one look back at Gendry, mouthing the words  _ “Sorry.” _ before closing the door behind them.

One by one, just as the lights had flickered on, the lights at Winterfell Manor went out and the world fell silent once again. Only the sound of the engine idling, and the squeal of the windshield wipers against dry glass could be heard as Gendry sat, contending with what the hell had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: had to delete and reupload. Please don't kill me. Other than that, no endnotes! I'm just having fun and I hope you are too.
> 
> Next up! A little welcome home shindig for Jon. Gendry's jealous. Apologies are had. Driver's Ned-ucation begins.
> 
> Please leave your kudos, your reviews, your feedback, it's all appreciated!!!


	5. The Shield that Guards the Realm of Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A: I’m not faking sick. I’m actually ill. Contagious even.  
> A: Might be a bit concussed from your driving.
> 
> His stomach leapt receiving the text and suddenly he felt very awake. He responded before he could stop himself. Before he realized the text was several hours old. Before he realized it was after midnight.
> 
> G: Gods damn those contagious concussions.  
> \------------------------  
> Arya plays hooky with Jon  
> Gendry & Arya exchange some late-night texts.

A twinge of guilt hummed through Arya as she called in sick to rehearsal the next day. To be perfectly honest, she felt a bit hungover from the emotional whiplash (and perhaps, actual whiplash) from the night previous. Arya was still completely spent from staying up chatting with her siblings. The tension in the house had cooled significantly once Jon walked through the door, though aunt Lysa and Robin took their first opportunity to leave after witnessing her less-than-ladylike exchange in the drive. Arya was all the happier for it. For the first time in a long time, it felt like she was really home.

Jaqen was surprisingly understanding on the phone, insisting she wouldn’t be needed today, as they’d be preparing scene work for the final act.

“There’s no better place to start than at the very end,” he waxed poetic, trailing off into the distance. Arya opened her mouth to argue back that it’s a far better choice to start at the beginning, but she was in no place to disagree. Ned, on the other hand, sent her a cascade of concerned texts, offering hot soup, cough meds, and at this pace, to personally fight her fictional sinus infection for her.

The guilt, however, dissolved immediately as she trailed down to the dining room to find Jon eating breakfast, consumed with the local newspaper. The feeling of her favourite sibling sitting there, doing something as simple as reading the paper, and eating jam on toast, felt like a gasp of air after being underwater. Everything that felt as if it had tipped sideways felt as if it were completely righted – like there was someone in the house who was finally on her team.

“Morning,” he flipped down the corner of the paper, with a smile, “what are you up to today?”

“Rehearsal was cancelled,” she lied, rather transparently. Jon raised an eyebrow. He may have been gone for the past three years, but he could still look right through her.

“Ok, fine, I called in sick. Do you want to go riding with me?”

“Gods, it’s been a while,” Jon smiled wistfully, “not too many horses up north.”

After a quick breakfast, the two found themselves cutting quickly across the sloping lawns towards the stables at the edge of the wolfswood.

“How come you didn’t answer my texts?” Arya asked, fiddling with the loose threads at the edge of her old sweater. The chilly weather had returned and she couldn’t be more grateful.

Jon shook his head with a soft laugh as they crossed the sloping lawns, “Reception is…not the best up north. I didn’t even receive them until I was at Eastwatch by the sea, and by then I was already back on the plane,” he said with an uncharacteristically dozy smile, “did you want me to crash the plane?”

_Was that…a joke? From Jon?_

“Well you could have texted me back!” she said pushing him lightly, he was caught off-balance, and swayed for a moment before he regained his footing, “How’s the research going anyway?”

“Excellent, the free people have been extremely receptive,” Jon smiled back his eyes distant and dewy. Jon’s climate research in the true north was always very interesting – well, to Arya at least. Despite Jon insisting he only collected samples of earth and snow, it was his stories about the peoples beyond Westeros that really interested her. However, his usual tales of his adventures with his friend Tormund did not usually elicit _that_ punch-drunk expression, “some of the northerners are actually scheduled to meet with us at the conference at King’s Landing Monday to give primary feedback.”

“Monday?” Arya said, deeply hurt. _He can’t just roll into town for a weekend and then leave again._ It wasn’t fair that he could just skim the surface of their lives, then run back away. But considering she was returning to Essos by the end of the summer, she was in no position to talk.

“I’m leaving Sunday morning,” he said, clocking the injury in her face, “Don’t worry, we’ll be back for the performance,” he reassured, but Arya’s head was already spinning, _wait – we?_

“We?” Arya pressed incisively; she was no longer interested in dancing around the subject. Jon’s opened his mouth, alternating between a slack-jawed grin and fumbling for words.

“I met someone,” Jon laughed resignedly, but there was an undercurrent of eagerness in his voice, as if he didn’t say it he would burst.

The thought was a dizzying prospect, but Arya was excited for her brother. Jon had always shrunk away from social situations. He rarely had any of his handful of friends from Wintertown over at the manor, and when he did they’d keep to the edges of the grounds, out toward Sandor’s cottage. She suspected her mother’s disapproval of Jon had something to do with it, and she’d take any opportunity to push the issue with her.

“You’ll get to meet her, of course, when we’re back up here for your big performance.”

“That’s wonderful Jon,” she reached out, soft and earnest in a way she was rarely comfortable with, “But I’m not sure I want to keep acting in the Summer Series”

“That’s a shame, you really sounded like you were enjoying it,” Jon pushed open the door to the stables and the earth scent of horses filled her nose. For the most part, it smelled like shit. The stables were small, but well kept. Nowadays they only had four horses – two Dornish, a willful mare, and a single foal. Arya gently patted the foal’s muzzle before making her way to saddle up her mare.

“Yeah, but I’m kinda conflicted. If I stay I can only see my boyfriend during rehearsal hours, and not at nights, and if I leave I can see him in the evenings, but not during rehearsal hours,” Arya explained. She hadn’t had anyone who was willing to listen to her problems, “I’m between a rock and a hard place.”

“Well I’m sure if you explained this to your boyfriend like you did to me, he’d understand your issue,” Jon shrugged, “communication is key in relationships. I’m sure you and Gendry will find a way to kiss and make up.”

Arya stopped dead in her tracks, the words hitting her like a gut-punch.

“You think I’m dating Gendry?” she spat, horrified, “Jon please. I just ate,” Something hot and queasy pooled up at the top of her throat. She tried to picture him around the estate, belching heartily after a meal, struggling his way onto a horse, muttering darkly, he looked at her, hugging the midsection of the horse awkwardly, “What are you laughing at _rich girl?”_

 _Ok that last one I’d pay to see. The first one too. Just for Sansa’s expression, but –_ Jon interrupted her train of thought, he was awkwardly saddling the smaller of the two destriers.

“I just thought…You were in his car, odd hours of the night, and you were screaming bloody murder at the man. I just assumed….”

“Well you assumed wrong,” she cut across him, making quick work of her own horse.

“I just mean. You don’t usually get that worked up unless…well unless you like someone…” Jon backpedalled wildly, still struggling with his saddle.

“I don’t see how me kicking the shit out of his car could be misconstrued as me _liking_ him,” Arya watched him, and looped around to the horse to properly seat the saddle.

Gendry had been a point of confusion for her since she first came across him. She didn’t necessarily like spending time with him, but she had to admit he was fast on his feet. On one hand, he could keep up with her banter in a way that she found very few people could. Just like her, he liked to push, and even more so she liked to push back. But on the other hand, he was such an _unbelievable shit._ He seemed to revel in getting under her skin, and when she’s provoked like that, she reverted to right back where she was when she was young. So rather than waste time puzzling over the great brute, she just put as much distance between the two of them as possible.

“That’s a shame,” Jon said flatly, “We were good friends in high school. I think you’d like him if you gave him a chance. Well _another_ one.”

She pulled the buckles tight around the horse’s midsection, by the sound of its whinnying, perhaps too tight She grimaced, and loosened it. _This was irksome. Jon was supposed to be on my side._

“I’m sick of people telling me that Jon. I gave him a chance, and he blew it,” she said firmly, “My other boss at the theatre said the same thing.”

“You’re working?” Jon said, even more incredulous than he was towards her love life.

"Just some community service at the theatre, I broke some priceless piece of art…” she began, “well, just between me and you, I didn’t break it. It was Mycah.”

Jon closed his eyes and nodded expectantly, “And you, being the honourable fool, took the fall. Gods, it’s like I haven’t even left.”

“If he doesn’t work at the butcher shop, he won’t be able to afford school next semester,” she shot back, this time, anger striking out at Jon, “I was just _protecting – “_

 _“–Protecting him,”_ Jon finished her sentence. She had a bad habit of taking slights against her friends as her own personal battles. “You truly are the tiny shield that guards the realm of men,” Jon paused thoughtfully, “well, the realm of boys.”

Arya punched him playfully in the arm, but sidestepped, expecting it. He scrambled onto his horse, up where she couldn’t reach him, “Point taken, point taken, you’re not an honourable fool and you’re not dating Gendry Waters. I’m sure whoever this mystery man is, he’s just as charming to sweep our little _porcelain wolf_ off her feet.”

 _“Jon don’t,”_ she warned, climbing into the saddle of her own mare. She looked at him, as he shook the dark curls out of his eyes, “I still can’t manage why you didn’t end up with a stupid nickname.”

“Why do you think I went north for the past three years?” he said with a laugh before digging his heels into the horse, setting off into the wolfswood at full tilt.

 

* * *

 

After last night’s summer storm, the balmy weather had snapped back into its usual crisp chill, to Gendry’s deep displeasure. He darted into the lobby, shivering still slightly through his thick wool jacket. In the lobby, to his surprise, he found the typically vacant ticket wicket to be a little less vacant than it usually was. Taking up residency in the little wooden box, was a tall girl with long brown hair, sitting legs tucked into the chair. He’d known Bella Rivers since his senior year of high school - and after being surrounded non-stop by northerners he found it particularly welcoming to find someone his own age who was from the south, despite the fact that Bella was as cold and detached as any northerner he knew. When Bella Rivers returned to the lobby of the theatre, Gendry knew it was officially the beginning of the summer series – the modest lineup of pre-sales behind a set of pewter stanchions only served to confirm this.

As an older couple cleared took their tickets and left, _Steady-Neddy_ himself stepped up to the window, running his hands coolly through his blonde hair. Gendry felt a rush of self-consciousness seeing Ned standing there in the flesh, and not just some vague concept in a road-trip game that he and Arya would eventually threaten bodily harm over. His stomach dropped, thinking that anywhere Ned was, Arya couldn’t be too far away – the two were attached at the hip. _At least this morning they’re not attached at the mouth like they usually are_ , a voice in his head chimed, as he sidled clumsily past the patrons in the lobby and into the theatre.

Sitting at the audio console desk at the back of the theatre, he watched lazily as the actors flittered in. It might be back to its regular chill outside, but indoors, it was already becoming stifling. Gendry felt himself getting sweaty, as nearly half the cast had already found itself in rows of seats, but not yet Arya. He wanted her to just get it over with, and glower at him, so he could clock just how far away he’d have to stay from her at technical setup tonight. Ned entered with the red-headed kid, and Gendry craned his neck so far in his chair to see if he could spot a set of vicious eyes staring back at him, he almost fell out of his chair. Finally, loudly clearing his throat, Jaqen called for the rehearsal to begin. Part of Gendry was glad she didn’t show up, another, far more vocal part, felt unease bubble low in his gut.

She didn’t return for the rest of the rehearsal, and by 5pm a panic had set in. He watched Ned saunter out of the theatre, before scrambling to his feet, and catching him by the arm at the door. He stared, wide-eyed and scared at him, and Gendry swallowed, trying to soften his glare. He opened his mouth.

“Dayne – can I have Arya’s number?” Dayne looked at him, eyes full of panic and offense. Gendry sighed for a moment, realizing what this looked like, “Look, I’m not trying to steal your girlfriend. I do fine on my own. We’re just expecting her tonight for technical setup.”

Dayne’s eyes darted back and forth like trapped animal, before offering the number, “She’s sick, didn’t she tell you?”

“No,” Gendry sighed, as Dayne hesitated awkwardly by the door, fiddling with the straps on his backpack nervously, “you can go now.”

Gendry flipped his phone out and tapped in her number. Her absence made him feel strangely apologetic towards her. Maybe he had pushed too far last night. But she pushed first.

_G: Dayne told me you weren’t feeling well. Hope you got some rest and are feeling better._

His thumb hovered over the send button, when Davos’s voice pulled his gaze away from the phone.

“Where’s your apprentice son?” he asked with a frown.

Gendry shrugged, “I dunno. Ned Dayne says she’s sick.”

Davos shook his head with a light chuckle, “at this rate you’re never going to finish your apprenticeship.”

“Yeah and you’ll never get to retire,” Gendry shot back grouchily. He hastily deleted the text and typed back.

_G: You can’t just drop off the face of the earth. Even if you are faking sick, you need to tell either me or Davos._

He pummeled the send button decisively and waited. Three dots appeared at the bottom of his screen to show that she was typing something back, but the bubble disappeared and reappeared several times before staying gone for good.

He pocketed the phone. Realistically, all he could do was grin and bear it, thinking back to the feeling of his own knife pointed between his ribs. If she didn’t want to be part of this, he was more than happy to let her walk out that door. He had enough work to do without being bothered by her.

The evening flew by with barely a hitch - he was back to his old routine. He had finished hammering the frame together and laying out the wiring for the audio system. It was twice the amount of work he expected to get done, but he was completely, and utterly spent.

It was the kind of night that he was grateful that Davos left one of the disused dressing rooms from the un-renovated side of the theatre unlocked for him. He trudged down the staircase, descending, down, into the bowels of theatre, winding through the labyrinth like hallways beneath the stage to the very back dressing room. The room was scarcely different from any of the other, newer rooms, save for a tangled heap of his cleanish clothing in the corner of the pressboard vanity, a bar of half-used soap in the cleanest shower in the theatre, and a squashy futon, dotted with stains Gendry would rather not further investigate.

It wasn’t home, but for nights when he could barely keep his eyes open, it was close enough. Pulling his t-shirt over his head, and wriggling out of his jeans, he collapsed into the futon. It was only when he pulled out his phone to set an alarm, did he noticed a reply from a number he didn’t immediately recognize.

_A: I’m not faking sick. I’m actually ill. Contagious even._

_A: Might be a bit concussed from your driving._

His stomach leapt, and suddenly he felt very awake. He responded before he could stop himself, scooting back onto the bed into a more comfortable position.

_G: Gods damn those contagious concussions._

_G: If I knew you’d be so sick I would have left you for the wolf._

Gendry pressed send before he considering the texts were a couple hours old, and what’s more, it was after midnight. She was probably sleeping. Or worse.

_A: 1. I would have died happy then._

_A: 2. Nymeria would never. I slept next to that dog for two years – you on the other hand, you’d make quite the snack._

_G: You think I’m a snack?_

He didn’t even have to wait for the three dots to appear, her response was immediate.

_A: For my dog._

_G: That’s still a snack._

_A: Listen yoswdhgk_

Gendry blinked for a second trying to parse what she wrote before laughing softly to himself.

_G: You dropped the phone on your face, didn’t you?_

_A: No._

_G: You’re laying in bed texting me right now, aren’t you?_

_A: No, I’m not._

_A: I’m out actually._

_A: Out with Dayne._

_G: C’mon. It’s past Ned’s bedtime._

_A: …_

_A: …_

To Gendry’s mouth fell open when she sent through a photo. She stood smirking, wearing a short black skirt and a blue lacy top that showed off her midriff at some bar he couldn’t quite place. And naturally, she was pressing up against Dayne. In the baggy clothing she wore around the theatre, it was hard to tell if she was a woman, but in an outfit like it was kinda hard to miss.

_G: Glad to see you made a miraculous recovery._

His pressed on the picture again, covering Dayne with his thumb, eyes lingered on the curves of her hips in the skirt, before they were drawn to something else – bright orange bills left on the table in front of them – _Essosi money –_ nothing that would be of any use in the North. Her hair was shorter than anything she’d seen her wear.

_The fucking gall – this is an old photo._

_G: Just so you know, there’s no shame in lying in bed alone texting._

He held his phone out at arm’s length and snapped a selfie. Cradling the phone back close to his chest, he assessed it. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible, his lips were chapped, his chest hair was all messy, and one of his eyes were half-closed. _One more couldn’t hurt._ He gnawed at his lip, sloughing off the dry skin, and ran his hands through his hair to give it that effortlessly tousled look and tried again.

 _This one_ , however, was perfect. He’d have to favourite it for _real_ use in the future.

He chose the photo and clicked send.

_Sent_

His own face smiled contentedly back at him from the conversation, it felt as if a red-hot poker of panic were twisting into his gut.

_Received at 12:43am_

_A: …_

_This was a mistake._

_A: …_

_That’s my coworker._

_A: …_

_That’s Arya Stark._

_A: See that’s the difference between me and you._

He tilted his head, reading over the cryptic message over and over trying to gain some clarity.

_A: Yeah, I might be in bed, but who says I’m alone?_

Somehow that felt much worse than any iteration of _Gods_ , _you’re a creep._

_G: Well R.I.P. Ned Dayne, and his sexually transmitted concussion._

Gendry knew Ned was off-limits, but at least this way she’d get frustrated and have to come clean that she wasn’t _actually_ with Ned.

_A: R.I.P._

_Fuck._

_G: Well, and I hope you’re not still contagious because Davos is expecting you here tomorrow._

_A: What time?_

_G: 10am._

He clicked the phone off and rested it on his chest. Like the night before him, he had to contend with what the fuck had just happened. It seemed impossible how someone could swing so effortlessly between loathing him and almost… _flirting_ with him. She was so consistently inconsistent.

He was certain he was reading too much into the subtext of things – it was very clear that she was the same stubborn type who was suddenly in competition with him for the last word. More than anything, he thought, it annoyed her that she didn’t always win. The constant power plays between them were fun, but _Gods_ were they exhausting.

He pressed his eyes shut and tried to will sleep upon himself, but it was no use. The image of her standing at that bar in Essos was sizzled into the insides of his eyelids. This was getting embarrassing now. He hadn’t been this turned on since he was in high school, and even then he didn’t feel as mortified about his feelings.

He flicked open the conversation, and zoomed Dayne out of the photo, and his hand skim down the coarse hair on his torso and into his boxers, where his traitorous body was already way ahead of him. He slicked his hand with the wetness already beading at his tip and gripped his shaft, imagining pressing a bruising kiss onto her mouth, nipping greedily at her bottom lip, and wiping that stupid, stubborn smirk off her face. He pictured trailing kisses down the column of her throat, feeling the hum of her ragged breath against his mouth. He thought how easily the delicate blue material would tear open under his strength, exposing her pert breasts, how each one would feel in his rough palms as he dragged his teeth down her clavicle. The sharp mewling sounds she’d make. He exhaled through his teeth, bucking into his hands with more fervour. He imagined his mouth latching onto her pink nipples, and her throwing her head back with a cry of lust as his tongue swirled wildly around them. His hands would keep pressing downward, downward, between the heat of her legs, as she grasped decisively at his manhood through his pants.

He pressed his eyes shut and feeling the twitch in his gut he knew he was close. He imagined her licking her lips and distancing herself, and in one motion, kneeling before him. He imagined the hungry, wolfish look in her eyes as she loosed his rock-hard length from his jeans, teasing him with one long, continuous lick from base to tip, before taking him entirely into her hot, heavenly mouth. He imagined threading his fingers into her hair encouragingly as she worked at him. He was rutting desperately into his hand now, animalistic grunts rolling at the back of his throat. With one final push, he bit deeply into his lip and felt the sweet waves of release as he came generously onto his stomach.

He lay breathing raggedly, running his hands through his chest hair, luxuriating in the moment, when the sudden rumble of the phone in his hand startled him. The phone flipped out of his hand, landing directly on his face.

Gendry scrambled to pick up the phone, rubbing the tip of his nose where it had hit the screen.

_A: I'll consider it._

_A: …_

_A: Seriously dude?_

He felt dread choking him suddenly, trying to understand what she meant. Desperately blinking at the conversation, he realized he had clicked “like” on her last comment when the phone fell onto his face.

_A: Desperation is not a good look on you, Waters._

_I am extremely fucked,_ he thought before cleaning himself off and drifting into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! It's been quite a week personally, so I've split up what I initially planned for this chapter. Luckily things will be calming down soon, so the next one I expect to come along quickly. Also this is my first smut so sorry I guess? The cootie catcher says I'm going straight to heck for this. So geez, darnit, aw shucks, etc.
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, everything is appreciated.
> 
>  


	6. The Truce

Though she got a full ten hours of sleep Arya couldn’t help but feel hungover the next morning. Rolling over in the mountains of covers on her bed, she checked her phone to see if the conversation (see also: argument) was still there, or if it was just her mind playing tricks on her. She squinted against the brightness of the phone in the murk of her bedroom, flicking to the conversation. To her own chagrin, the conversation was still there, and indeed not, as she had hoped a bad dream. She had still sent the photo that she felt most embodied the idea of “I’m going out tonight, thank you very much.” And it was responded in kind with the photo that was the embodiment of “I’m staying in tonight, thank _you_ very much.” He glanced up at her with a sultry smirk, and a softness in his ocean blue eyes she hadn’t seen before. Just like the night previous, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it – it made her uneasy in a way she’d never felt before. The only thing she knew with great certainty was that it was a powerplay, and by staring at it, she was playing _right into it._

Decisively, Arya deleted the conversation, and with an almighty sigh cast off the covers to start her day. This morning Jon was conspicuously absent from breakfast, though Sandor sat at the breakfast table. It was only slightly unusual to see him eating his breakfast alongside them – more than likely it meant he had just returned from driving Sansa somewhere.

“I think I might need a ride to the theatre today,” Arya began, bracing for his acerbic retort.

“Done deserting your duties are you?” he said looking up from his food. It was far better than the distant grunts and nods, he’d been giving her since their fight, but only slightly, “well come see me when you’ve made up your mind.”

She wasn’t in the slightest hungry so she continued on towards the grounds before a distant sound by the basement door stopped her in her tracks – it was Bran, and he was laughing.

Curiously, she wound her way down to the basement, following the sounds down the dim corridors and towards the door farthest from the staircase, the one that opened into the indoor pool. The pool wasn’t frequently used nowadays: the story went that when her parents were first wed, her mother was so sad and homesick for the Riverlands, that her father had the pool built, indoors though as it was simply too cold to be of any use for months at a time. Since her parents passing, the stewards and house staff had brought up the prospect of converting it, but Sansa would have none of it. They were as Tully as they were Stark and the pool would stay.

To her immense surprise, she opened the doors to find Jon and Bran racing the length of the pool. Bran paced ahead of Jon considerably, laughing as he gasped his way to the finish.

“I’ve got two good legs, and this one still beats me,” Jon laughed, folding his arms on the edge of the pool.

Bran laughed heartily, still a sound Arya found surprising, “that’s because I’m practicing every day.”

“It’s true, it’s part of his therapy,” Arya smiled, “he’s quick.”

She rolled up the cuffs on her jeans and let the warm water lap up against her ankles, sitting down on the ladder.

“Arya, why don’t you throw your hat into this race, c’mon,” Jon beckoned. She looked at the two eager faces before her, and considered for a moment the very smug face of Gendry Waters awaiting her at the theatre. It was no contest. She pulled the sweater over her head, tossing it aside, and leapt in the water, clothing and all. Feeling the cool embrace, she sunk down to the bottom, and felt a strange pang of guilt shoot through her – thinking suddenly of Gendry’s expectant face. As she surfaced, noting the direwolf mosaic lining the edges of the pool, her mind went suddenly to Nymeria, and the guilt she felt dissolved immediately.

 _The pack survives,_ she thought, looking between her brothers, _this is my pack._

* * *

 

The next morning Gendry found the lobby mostly deserted, except for Bella, who sat waiting for the first customers of the day. She was thumbing intently through that horrible magazine he’d seen his previous girlfriends read, as he approached, she folded the magazine in her lap.

“You wouldn’t happen to have something for a headache in there would you?” he asked thickly, smacking his lips together - his mouth was terribly dry.

“Well hello to you too,” she grumbled, pulling up a handbag into her lap. She produced two small red pills and pushed them through the ticket window, “That’ll be four-fifty.”

“Very funny,” Gendry snatched them and downed them without water, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Wild you can down those dry,” she said incisively, “next time just ask me for some of my water.”

When he reopened his eyes, he was face to face again with a glossy photo of Arya and Dayne giggling flirtatiously on the cover, “How can you read that trash?”

“Two eyes and a seventh-grade reading comprehension,” Bella replied, eyes still glued to the magazine, “It’s not trash, it’s cute. Ned Dayne bought the littlest Stark an ice-cream cone.”

“If I had as much money as Ned Dayne, I wouldn’t be buying her an ice cream cone. I’d buy her something big,” he said distantly, “like...a sectional.”

“You’d buy her a sofa?” she repeated, her voice incredulous.

“No, just…” Of course he wouldn’t buy her a sofa, but he hadn’t slept well and his thoughts felt as if they were coming from far away and underwater.

“You’re thinking about the futon in the back right now aren’t you,” Gendry gave a resigned nod, “You still sleep on that thing?”

“Not well,” he grumbled, “well have you seen her?”

“Who?” Bella squinted, not quite following.

“The _littlest Stark,”_ he said with emphasis.

“I haven’t seen _her_ ,” Bella said gently, “Why do you ask?” her voice was suddenly high and salacious, and Gendry could feel flush creeping up in his neck.

“It’s not like _that_.” Bella stared at him as if it was very much _like that._ He’d have to clarify as to not make things worse, “She’s working here this summer. Or at least she’s supposed to, and honestly, I can’t stand her.”

“You can hate someone and still want to fuck them, Gendry. It’s called _going through puberty_ ,” she said, her voice turning singsong, “soon you’ll find hair where there wasn’t hair before.”

She scanned over his already hairy arms, “Good luck with that.” Gendry rolled down the sleeves on his shirt self-consciously. Bella flipped open the magazine once, revealing a photo of them kissing.

“Oh c’mon! don’t tell me you wouldn’t!”

Two picture-perfect young people, on a picture-perfect date, making Gendry want to put a picture-perfect hole in the wall.

 _“No, I wouldn’t,”_ he said firmly enough to dissipate the vivid mental images he conjured last night.

 “And for the record, I would for both of them. I would get in the middle of that ice-cream sandwich.”

“You would for _anyone_ ,” Of all the friends he had Bella flew through boyfriends and girlfriends like no one’s business. And frankly, it was no one’s business. She was exceptionally good at dating, unlike Gendry who had two girlfriends, and a lone one-night stand.

“Guilty as charged,” she flashed a grin, “Not you though. You’re like a sister to me.”

Davos strode through the lobby, and Gendry leapt off the ticket wicket as he whistled at him, beckoning him into the theatre. His head still

“Anyway - Jon’s having a thing tonight. You in?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Bella didn’t answer but looked back to him with a withering glare that answered he most certainly did not.

Davos and Gendry worked quietly that day, planning on where to hang the speakers, and calibrating the system. But this time, the peace and quiet was suddenly less enjoyable. No one was at his elbow asking stupid questions or casting glowering looks at him.

_G: Give it any more consideration?_

_She said she’d be here and she lied,_ he thought venomously, pushing the heavy sub-woofer across the stage, ignoring the scraping noise it was making, _Well, she said she’d consider it, but if she considered it, she’d know it’s the right thing to do._

“Easy!”Davos called sharply, folding his arms, “You seem preoccupied.”

Gendry pushed against the heavy sub-woofer across the stage, not sparing him a glance, “She said she’d be back.”

“You were almost getting along on Thursday night. What did you do?” Davos asked curiously.

“What did _I do?”_ he gaped incredulously, now leading the way to the office, “I saved her from having her throat ripped out by a wolf.”

Davos just chuckled into his chest, “Starks and their wolves, nothing but trouble for you, lad.”

Gendry opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, trying to put together another excuse but he had none.

“Just make sure she’s back by tomorrow, You know we need someone who isn’t afraid of heights to hang the rest of those speakers.”

 

* * *

 

Even though she liked The Crossing quite a bit, Arya hated get-togethers like this one. She hated music so loud it felt like it suffocated any conversation that she wanted to have. She hated how she was expected to mingle, and drink easily, but still carry herself with a measured sense of dignity. More than anything she hated feeling like she was being watched. Dayne on the other hand, seemed to have long-since abandoned any self-consciousness towards the public eye. He was a talkative social butterfly, who had, unfortunately, _flip-flapped_ away from her to get drinks and seemingly had gotten lost in conversations along the way.

The talk she had with Sansa before things had blown up between them came to mind – _do try to be less entertaining._ Arya interpreted that to mean blending into the badly waterstained wallpaper of the town’s favourite dive. Jon, on the other hand, seemed to be revelling in having all the people he knew in one place. This new, gregarious, happy Jon was jarring thing to see, but it was a nice change of pace. She watched him hug guests, a tall man, and his chestnut-haired date by his side. As Jon relinquished him, she inhaled sharply, recognizing the dark hair and blue eyes – _Oh wonderful, Gendry is here._ She watched the three chat for a moment, feeling a hot constricting feeling crawl up in her throat. _It’s not fair that he gets to just barge into every part of my life unexpected._ Jon threw his head back laughing, and the girl touched Jon’s arm, then Gendry’s. The three of them walked towards the tiled bar, and the girl ordered the three of them drinks, she watched Gendry sip from a pint of beer, before sloshing a bit on his lap, she laughed deeply from the corner of the room, and his gaze zeroed in on her. _Shit._

She made quickly to look over the selection of specials on the chalkboard, sipping nonchalantly from her beer, but it was too late, she could see him approaching from the corner of her eye.

“You shouldn’t be drinking with one of those contagious concussions,” his voice was uncharacteristically sympathetic. She turned to meet his eye, trying to seem cool and composed as she hadn’t seen him coming. For once he looked clean, and rested, though a light stubble now clinging to his jaw, something that, in Arya’s opinion at least made him look more serious and manly than he usually did. She wanted to say something clever and cold. She wanted to come out of the social interaction on top, but she could already feel a flush coming to her cheeks. His eyes were full of that same disarming softness from the photo that made the right words difficult to grasp.

“Can you stop joking about that,” she averted her eyes back to her drink, “we were almost in a car accident.”

“Keyword, almost. Why weren’t you in today? Are you ok?” she could hear _actual_ concern trickling into his voice, and it made it even harder to look at him.

 _What the hell is he doing?_ She thought, looking at him sidelong. Whatever he was doing, she wanted it to stop immediately. _Be upset. Be unreasonable. Be mad. Don’t be like this…_

“I’m not concussed, ok,” she conceded, hoping that the truth that she was altogether just skipping work would be enough to send him back into a characteristic fury, and she could put some distance between herself and him, “I just wanted to spend the day with my brother.”

He placed his hands up in a sign of good faith, “That’s cool. That’s all you had to say. Listen, I know you’ve been avoiding tech, so I just had to,” he hesitated for a moment, looking up to compose himself, as though he was beginning a pre-prepared speech, “I just have to give you my pitch is all.”

He sighed heavily and took a moment to still his breathing. It was clear that he had been preparing whatever he meant to say, and there was something quite funny about imaging the bull of a man standing in front of a mirror running lines with himself. _A big black bug bit a big black bear. She sells seashells by the seashore,_ she pictured him saying to himself, practicing his elocution. It was hilarious.

She raised an eyebrow, struggling not to laugh “…so get on with it.”

He opened his eyes, and flicked a tongue quickly out of his mouth to wet his lips.

 “Just come back,” the words tumbled inelegantly from his mouth. It was hard to hide her laughter now.

“Really? That was it? _Just come back?”_ she chuckled, and she could see his soft expression harden into something she felt more comfortable with, and she felt a deep relief thrum through her.

“ _No_ ,” he spat back petulantly, folding his arms like a large, slightly bearded child, “Listen. If you don’t return I lose my job.”

“Sounds great,” she laughed. _Ok that’s cold, even for you,_ the voice in her head repeated.

He rankled for a moment, “No. Not great. I can’t just up and move to Essos whenever I want, like some people.”

She stiffened for a moment. Maybe her low-blow was more warranted than she had given it credit for, she felt a heat rising up in her chest, “I didn’t just move to Essos for no reason – I – ”

He rubbed his forehead with his thumb, and licked his lips again, before cutting across her, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that. Can we try this again?”

She was left midsentence, jaw slack, an apology was the last thing she was expecting from this pitch.

“Look. Davos thinks I have an attitude problem – ” he began

“Well you do,” she replied before she could think better of it.

“That’s rich coming from the girl who skipped work two days in a row because she felt like it,” he said bitterly. This pitch was not going the way he expected it and she could tell. It was very clear he just wanted to say his peace and be done with it.

“I didn’t say I don’t have an attitude problem,” she backpedalled, wrapping her arm around her midsection, “I just said you have one too.”

“And that’s the reason why Davos wants us to work together. He thinks that if I can learn to work with someone as difficult as myself, I’ll be prepared for the real world or some bullshit. And if you don’t return –  ”

“I’ll lose my role in the play,” Arya said, receding into thought. Her eyes flickered to Jon – _he was so excited to see her perform_. Maybe if she didn’t give him a reason to return, he wouldn’t. He was always so happy in the North.

“What I’m suggesting is a truce,” he said, his voice suddenly deliberate and measured. He was back to his prepared statement.

Arya blinked, returning to the conversation, “A truce?”

“I am your boss. You are my employee. That’s the truce,” he said firmly. She searched his face for a moment. He smirked ever-so-slightly, thinking he’d wrangled the argument back in his favour.

“See that’s weird, because it’s my family’s endowment that pays your salary, so technically,” she smirked defiantly, “I am your boss.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but he stepped closer, “I see you don’t understand how a truce works.”

“We’re negotiating terms,” she stepped closer, until they were uncomfortably close, “A great political mastermind like yourself would know that’s what you do, General Waters,” she lifted her hands from her midsection to salute him. The gesture put her hand inches from his face.

“How about this,” he breathed exhaustedly, “we’re coworkers. Neither of us is the boss. Both of us are the boss. We shut up and do our work.”

“The idea of you shutting up is very tempting,” she thought aloud, he shook with laughter. _This is going well._

Gendry smiled, “Trust me the feeling is mutual. But…” he hesitated, his face screwed up as he lolled his head frustratedly back and forth, “you’re actually good at this. When you _try,_ ” it was clear the concession pained him, but it was a point of pride to hear she wasn’t actually ruining the theatre, as she feared she was, “Davos is sick and I can’t do this alone.”

The words reverberated in her head for a moment. It felt like a cold wave of fear washed over her. Of course, Davos was old and he had a bit of a limp, but she never considered that he might be seriously _ill_. She could feel the calculated coldness on her face warming a bit, as she quietly asked, “What’s wrong with Davos.”

He opened his mouth, and closed it again, looking unsure of what to say – when she felt someone pull at her from behind her waist. She instinctively elbowed backward but stilled herself when she felt Dayne’s mouth pressing a tiny line of kisses onto her neck. She turned to meet his face, his eyes glassy and drunk. Gendry, on the other hand, looked a stark combination of relieved and a tiny bit disgusted.

“Is this guy bothering you?” he slurred at her neck. She felt suddenly very embarrassed at the gesture.

“No, no,” she reassured him, placing a hand at the nape of his neck, trying to gently dislodge him from her neck, “he’s come with his hat in his hands to _negotiate peace_.”

“About time,” Dayne said unwinding himself from Arya and placing his drinks down on the table. He wiped his hands, still wet from the perspiring drinks on his jeans and offered his hand for Gendry to shake. Instead, Gendry raked a hand through his black hair and mimed plopping a cap onto his head. She laughed, and for once, it felt like a real, warm laugh.

“Maybe you should consider being an actor, Waters,” Dayne said drily.

Gendry tipped his imaginary hat, “Nah, couldn’t deal with my photo in all the tabloids. You don’t have any problems with that though, Ned,” he nodded to him, and she laughed again, as he closed into the din back toward the bar, “Anyway Arya,” he saluted her, “Consider it.”

She watched him as he walked back to the bar to sit next to the long chestnut haired girl. They both smiled as they sipped their drinks. She stood up to go to the bathroom, and bowing down she pressed a gentle kiss into his mess of black hair. Something uncomfortable lurched in Arya, and suddenly everything about the room was excruciatingly annoying. Especially Dayne, who was suddenly kissing her again, but this time she barely felt the energy to fight the _entertainment_ she seemed to be providing.

* * *

 

Arya kept an inconspicuous distance from Dayne as he closed the door to his apartment. It was a well-appointed flat – clean and modern to the point that it barely looked like it belonged in Wintertown at all.

“Are you ok?” he asked, removing her jacket from her as she walked to the sofa, “you look a little under the weather.” Arya kept walking, but he managed to grab her by the arm and pulling her in for a kiss. She stiffened, enduring it.

“Dayne we need to talk about that?” she said seriously. She had been waiting to see what the proper time was to finally discuss what Sansa asked, but he continued to kiss her. She felt like she was drowning in his lips, and not in a particularly good way.

“About what?” he asked breaking away with a grin.

“About that,” she gestured to the kiss, “I told you I’m really not into big public displays of affection.”

Dayne’s flopped down onto the couch sullenly, “I thought you just meant at rehearsal?”

“Rehearsal is fine, that’s barely public. I just mean when we’re out and about. Have you heard of the magazine _The Northstar?”_ she asked settling down next to him.

“The ticket girl was reading it, she said they had a write up about us, it’s nice publicity,” he shrugged.

“It’s not nice. It’s invasive,” she retorted, “Don’t you care about your privacy at all?”

“Arya,” Dayne took her hand, and gave her a reassuring squeeze, “I don’t know if this is just a cultural thing, but in Dorne, we don’t care – at all. People used to make love in the water gardens. Privacy isn’t an issue.”

“Well we’re not in Dorne are we?” Arya said stiffly. Dayne’s expression soured suddenly into something petulant and dark.

“We don’t see each other all week, and then the first time we’re alone you want to argue with me?” he huffed. Arya slithered her hand out of his and crossed her arms, suddenly feeling cold.

“If we don’t see each other enough, maybe I should just quit the play. Then you could see me every night. I wouldn’t be stuck doing this stupid community service,” she grumbled.

Dayne became very quiet and pensive for a moment, looking down at his hands clasped in his lap. She couldn’t believe it. If anyone would have been there to support her plan, it was him.

“Yesterday, we had your understudy stand in for you, and Arya…she’s horrible, just pure community theatre level. I’ll have to completely carry the scene, it’s unconscionable –“

“So you’d rather me have to spend the evenings with someone I hate than have to perform a scene with someone you don’t think is good enough?”

“Come off it. You don’t hate him, I saw you two tonight. Like old friends!” he reassured, “He even asked for your number yesterday to smooth things over, have you guys even tried to talk it out?”

Arya breathed. Oh yes, they tried to talk it out. And it resulted in her spending a half-hour in bed, repeatedly deleting then undeleting a salaciously heavy-lidded bedroom selfie until she resigned to just keeping it in the phone’s garbage can where it could live in limbo forever.  

“I don’t think I’m feeling well,” Arya said, grabbing her coat off the back of the couch, Dayne put his hand on hers, and leaned in to kiss her neck, but there was no heat there, no thrill. Just mushy lips slobbering on her neck.

“Don’t be like this,” he breathed against her neck, but it was doing nothing for her. Before he could stop her, she was on her feet and making for the door.

“I’m contagious Dayne, I don’t want to get you sick, you're the title role,” she said gravely, knowing that inflating his ego on this matter would work. He quickly stepped away from her, giving her space to sling on her coat, "I'll see you on Monday at rehearsal,” he followed her to the entrance, where she placed a quick peck on his cheek before heading out the door.

“So you’re not quitting?” he called after her down the hallway, leaning on the door jamb, "Arya?"

She didn’t answer.

Later that night as she lay in her bed, curled up in covers, cradling her phone in her hands. She finally removed Gendry’s photo from the trash. She wasn’t sure what kind of bizarre universe she had stepped into – one where Edric Dayne was being an inconsiderate asshole, and Gendry Waters coming to make peace, but she wasn’t exactly hating it. She let her eyes rove around the photo –  the way dark hair dotted his strong chest, his lips playfully parted in anticipation, his eyes heavily lidded, but unusually gentle and contented. One part of her knew she should delete it again. He was her coworker and she was in a relationship. But another part of her knew there wasn't anything objectively wrong with it. It was just a photo of a face. And a neck. And a little bit of a bare chest. But it was nothing she hadn't seen at the pool with her brothers before. But in the dark it was easy to consider what it would be like for his face to loom over her, breathing softly, but intently, eyes dark with lust. 

“ _Consider it_ ,” his voice echoed in her ear, and she could almost feel his hot breath curling against her neck. Suddenly, she could feel the rush of a throbbing sensation between her legs. She deleted the photo once more before tossing her phone to the bedside table.

_She couldn’t believe that she was._


	7. Dog Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Arya's tenuous truce hits a bump when an offhanded comment Gendry makes finds its way under her skin.
> 
> Gendry tries to make up for things with a good ol' fashioned stakeout.

Their work for the day started slower than the day previous – although they’d managed to get the projector set up, the bulb began to flicker and fade entirely while the

“The bulb must be getting on in years,” Davos nodded gravely, before laughing, “just like me.”

Today was the type of day where Davos’s slower pace was clearly on display, as they began to work fastidiously to open the projector casing to reveal the long burnt projector bulb. Gendry carefully pulled on gloves and gingerly unseated it, carrying it gently like a precious bird – the bulb was under so much pressure so much as the wrong bump could send the whole thing exploding like a hand grenade. Davos had laid down a soft cloth on the desk and they swaddled it carefully laying it into a box of packing peanuts. Once it was safely cradled inside, Davos shuffled to the shelf at the back of the projection room, rifling through boxes.

“We don’t have a replacement,” he grunted, “we’ll have to do without until tomorrow.”

Davos peered out the window at the speakers still sitting on stage, still waiting to be hung, and Gendry’s stomach clenched in anticipation of what he’d have to do, “You were hoping you could wait it out, weren’t you lad?”

The looming spectre of being hauled twenty feet in the air with nothing but a harness supporting him wasn’t enough, Gendry’s head felt fuzzy and lethargic from the drinking the night before. Marching down the staircase he realized that his hangover wasn’t enough to dull the tense anticipation knotting in his stomach. Every time he heard the gasp of the pneumatic door hinges open and close, he’d swivel his head sharply, expecting her to be there. Instead, it was an usher, or a custodian, or a particularly lost film festival patron who had misread the date on their ticket. This time it wasn’t apprehensive worry that coiled up in him, like last night, but pressurized frustration.

Finally, the door gasped open, and Gendry, who was hanging suspended in the air trembling while trying to hang a loudspeaker didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder.

“Your screening isn’t until _next Saturday,_ you read your ticket wrong,” he bellowed exhaustedly.

Just as he raised his drill to continue his work, a wry voice replied, “I’m not here for a screening,” He fumbled his drill as his head swivelled to see Arya standing in the door frame, thumbing awkwardly at the straps of her backpack. “I’m here to work.”

He watched helplessly the drill rattle to the ground below, before turning back to watch her approach tentatively.

“You’re late,” he called, twisting awkwardly, trying to look composed and not at all stuck, mid-air.

He watched her move swiftly and gracefully, hopping over several rows of seats, until she was standing where he was tied off, “I had to get a ride, and Jon had to be dropped off first.”

“Well maybe it’s time you got your license,” Gendry said sharply, grasping hard against the rope suspending him.

She reached down and grabbed the drill he had dropped. She pulsed it twice, distractedly, “In Essos no one really drives.”

“You’re not in Essos now,” he said, now feeling the full distance between himself and the floor, “do you mind?” he gestured to the rope that he was tied off on. She was so small he doubted she could handle the weight, but the slick sweat forming on his palms betrayed he didn’t much care to be left up there. She nodded, fingers moving fast to undo the knot, “Two hands now,” he warned.

She placed drill on the ground and firmly wrapped her hands onto the rope as it came free from the knot. To Gendry’s surprise, she seemed to have a tight grasp on it. _So she’s stronger than she looks,_ he mused, _you should have gathered that by the amount of times she’s kicked your ass._

He felt his body sink with an almighty jerk, and he yelped helplessly. He jerked hard to a halt as her hands took hold of the rope, lowering him down, down, down until his toes skimmed the ground.

“You made it here now,” he heard Davos’s voice call brightly from the balcony, a wide smile brimming on his face, “and that’s half of the battle.”

She let him down the final length, and he stood tenuously, before overcompensating and tumbling backwards onto his ass.

Trying desperately not to tremble, he holstered the drill and scrambled to his feet, smoothing himself off. He looked her up and down – she was wearing a pair of baggy overalls and a t-shirt.

“Is this what you think working people look like?” he asked, stretching his arms over his head and feeling his back crack, “you look like you belong in a coal mine.”

She chuckled softly, “If working people look anything like you do, I’d say they’re all sweaty and weak in the knees.”

He bristled immediately. All the desire he had for her to return was suddenly flying out the window, “If it’s so easy, why don’t you try it,” he said, reaching to unbuckle his harness, but his hands were still too shaky to remove them.

“ _Fine_ ,” her hands flew the buckles he was struggling with, making quick work of them, his hands falling uselessly to the sides. He shrugged out of the harness in one move, trying to maintain some composure, and handed it to her. Before he could steady his breath completely she had buckled the harness, and latched herself to the line, “Are we doing this or what?”

“Fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth, handing her the drill and a handful of screws, “Lower-left, it’s essentially fastened good, it just needs two more,” he grabbed the edge of the rope in two hands.

“Easy,” she grinned, revved the drill, and he yanked hard on the rope, sending her straight up into the air with a gasp. From this vantage point, she seemed fairly confident, but Gendry could also admit, from this vantage point he could mostly only see her ass. He heard the drill pulse a few times, and then, she called, “Done!”

“Bullshit,” Gendry yelled back with disbelief. There was no way she managed that so quickly. It had taken him half an hour to do the first three.

She twisted for a moment on the line, “But I’m done. What are you going to do leave me up here?”

He set the rope free to slide dramatically through his hands for a second as she careened perilously downward. Just as she was about to hit the ground, he winched the rope with his hands, and let her down oh-so-gently.

“Not scary _at all_ , is it?” he asked, his eyes glinting maliciously, just as she was about to leap at him, fists balled, Davos’s voice boomed through the theatre. Gendry’s head snapped backward to see the old man standing at the edge of the balcony

“ _My office lad,”_ he called, “and you. You just wait up in the control room, this won’t take long.”

Davos’s office was more cluttered than usual with paperwork and spent equipment boxes. Gendry moved a stack of folders off the chair opposite his desk and sunk down into it.

“What in seven hells has gotten into you,” Gendry opened his mouth to speak, but Davos dug back into him, “I get it. You two argue. You two bicker. That’s what you do for _fun_. But when you put someone in this theatre in danger.”

“Me, _put her in danger_ ,” he scoffed readily, “she tried to stab me, Davos.”

“It must not have been too serious of an attempt, because your sorry arse is still here,” Davos barked, “You’re the adult in the room.”

“She’s an adult too,” he whined back.

“You’re her superior,” Davos shot back just as quickly.

Gendry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “Well then tell her that because I don’t think she knows. She doesn’t follow rules. She doesn’t listen. She’s useless.”

Davos stroked his beard for a moment, an idea dawning on him, “You’re jealous.”

“I am not,” Gendry crossed his arms, “she just gets to do whatever she wants and go wherever she wants. Hell, the only reason she’s _here_ is because she couldn’t buy her way out of it.”

“My Gods, you _are_ jealous. I was just guessing,” Davos rubbed his forehead for a moment clearly exhausted, “I want to show you something.”

Gendry shuffled awkwardly back around the computer and waited for Davos to slowly peck in his password on the yellowing chiclet keyboard. He looked down and up at the screen as he moved his mouse slowly to the folder, eyes narrowed, “Now where did I put it?”

“What are you looking for?” Gendry said, now getting impatient, leaning in to grab the mouse, “can I?”

Davos relinquished the mouse, but breathed out frustratedly into his bristling beard, “The security footage from Wednesday.” Gendry located it with a few clicks, opening the fuzzy closed-circuit footage.

“What exactly am I looking at here?” He said. Davos grabbed the mouse back and scrubbed forward.

“That “rich, selfish bitch.” She said she tripped into the statue. When I saw that girl on the catwalk on Thursday, she looked pretty surefooted to me.”

“I don’t follow?"

“See you did forget those cables,” he said with a wry smile as he watched himself in fast motion panicking coiling the cables, “No, no, this is too far, back up,” he rewound again, “here.” Davos paused the fuzzy scene. Arya, Dayne, and Mycah were standing in front of the stage. With a dramatic “click” he let the tape play.

Dayne standing a bit off in the distance reading a script, but Arya and Mycah were fighting. Well....by the sound of their giggles and huffs, he assumed play-fighting. Arya had Mycah pinned in an unladylike headlock underneath her arm. He struggled for a moment before wriggling free, he staggered backwards. The two squared off before he ran at her again, but she was too quick. Arya slid gracefully out of the way, and Mycah lost his balance, tumbling backward and snapping the onyx direwolf from the wall. Arya leapt down to grab Mycah and dust him off in a motion that was uncharacteristically soft. They looked between each other wildly as she said something he couldn’t quite hear. The boy hugged her desperately. 

Davos pressed the space bar and paused the video. He looked up at him entreatingly, “Well?”

Gendry was lost in thought for a moment, replaying the action in his head, “So she wasn’t even the one to break it?”

“You saw. It was the butcher’s boy,” Davos said, leading him along.

“Why did she -” Gendry trailed off, thinking about the scene again. A certain affection seemed to swell in his chest, thinking of the way she handled the indignity to help the butcher’s boy.

“I wonder?” Davos said in a way that implied he didn’t wonder at all. Silence fell between the two for a long period of time as Gendry leaned back against the wall, “Now get back to work. And for the love of Gods, please, no more child endangerment.”

“She’s nineteen, that’s hardly a child,” he rebuffed, his mind straying back to their late-night conversations.

“I’ll endanger you if you don’t get back to work.”

Gendry got up off the wall, “ _Note taken.”_

The walk back to the projectionists' booth felt longer than it ever had before, as Gendry ruminated in his own embarrassment and guilt for the way he’d been treating her. He pushed through the first heavy door into the adjourning room, but hesitated before he entered. He didn’t know how to broach the subject, but he found it actually quite endearing the way she had stepped up to protect the butcher’s boy, and he felt like he had to say something on the subject.

“Arya I - ” he began, striding into the main area, only to realize she was examining the projector bulb in her bare hands, “ _No don’t touch that –_ ” he yelled, reaching out.

But it was too late. She startled at his voice, and the bulb tumbled out of her hands. He barely had time to shield his face before the explosion rent the air, firing shards of thin glass everywhere. Gendry threw up his own hands to brace against the impact and she did too. There was a long, quiet moment, as they both lowered their defences. Her face was completely drained of colour but filled with curiosity.

“You’re bleeding,” she said dazedly stepping toward him, crunching over bits of glass as she walked. If he was bleeding he couldn’t feel it, but maybe he would when the initial shock wore off. His eyes raked over her – to every strip of bare skin, over her cheeks, and down her neck. She seemed to be, miraculously, unharmed. She reached out to touch his face but gasped out in pain as she cupped her hand, and he could see a shard sticking out of the heel of her palm.

“Speak for yourself,” he said, staggering to the shelving where he rummaged for an old First-aid kit, “Sit down,” he instructed, pointing to the stool. She stood rooted in place, examining the cut with great interest.

“It’s nothing,” she said cradling her palm, eyes fixed to the cut.

“Sit down,” he insisted, “Fine. We’ll do this standing.”

He flipped open the tin on the desktop with a clank, and fished for a pair of tweezers, a roll of gauze and some disinfecting wipes. The tweezers appeared comically tiny in his large hands, but he beckoned her regardless, “c’mon.”

She receded into herself for a moment, before eventually stepping forward and offering him her hand, all the while refusing to make eye contact. Gendry took her hand, gently but firmly - as if he were holding something terribly delicate. After all of the commotion, he expected them to be clammy like his own, but he was pleasantly surprised to feel their calm warmth seep into his own.

“Can I be honest with you for a second?” he said finally, his face still screwed up with focus.

She nodded with a grimace, as he pried unsuccessfully at the edges of the shard in her hand with tweezers.

“You get under my skin sometimes,” He said, unseating a large chunk of glass. He placed it into the lid of the tin.

“Same,” she said, gasping as he plunged the tweezers back in, “literally.”

“I’m sorry,” he grimaced apologetically. Watching her struggle in pain only made him feel more embarrassed for how difficult he had been to her.

She shrugged, but he could tell she was balling her opposite fist in discomfort, “It’s necessary. Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

His mind immediate was thrown back to the sight of the news report about the tragic car crash, and he felt even more guilty than he had before.

“No I mean, I’m sorry for dropping you and getting under your skin. _Not_ literally, this is necessary” He said removing another shard into the lid of kit with a satisfying _plink_. Blood blossomed readily out of the gash, but he quickly encircled her hand with a piece of gauze, squeezing tightly against it.

“It’s ok,” she said, sucking air through her teeth. He nodded expectantly waiting for the apology, but one didn’t come.

“Now this is where you apologize,” he spoke out of the corner of his mouth in a cartoonish voice, _“I’m sorry for trying to murder you dead Waters.”_

“I’m sorry about the stabbing, and the…judo flip,” she paused, staring him down under heavy brows, “I don’t like things to be out of my control.”

“I can see that,” He squeezed tightly against it, and made eye contact with her, “I have to ask, where did you learn that?”

“Judo,” she said plainly, knitting her brow in a way that read _come on man._

He laughed softly, “I have no idea what I expected,” he removed the gauze for a moment, only to see blood continuing to gush out, “fuck I’m going to have to stitch it.”

“You know how to do stitches?” she asked, eyebrows raising. Of course he did. Who else was going to patch him back up when he got in a stupid drunken fight as a teenager, but his crude escapades were hardly appropriate conversation for the daughter of nobility.

He reached into the first aid kit, “Of course I know how to do stitches. Davos taught me,” he said, threading the needle. He ripped open the disinfectant with his teeth and warned, “this is going to hurt.”

“Sure, if you’re a – _fuck_ ,” she hissed, before gasping out in searing pain as he swept the wipe across her skin. He blew on the skin gently, trying to speed the disinfectant's drying.

“If you’re a human,” he replied, crumpling the wipe and tossing it into the garbage, “which before this, I seriously doubted. You can act. You can fight. You were passing all my tests far too easily – like the ones with the cookies.”

“You call that a test? I thought that was just you being an asshole.”

“That was me being an asshole. And that was _also_ a test. Dealing with assholes is the most important skill in this industry. How did you know what a cookie was anyway?”

“This is turning into quite the interrogation,” she replied. He pulled the needle through the skin on her palm and she stifled a cry.

“You were saying?” he said with a grin.

“We have to take one theatre tech course at the conservatory to make sure we’re _well-rounded_ ,” she said, emphasizing _well-rounded_ as if it meant nothing but, “I aced it.”

“I see that,” he said, pulling the thread taut, “if Davos had his way he’d be swapping you out for me any minute.”

“Well don’t worry. I’m not gunning for your job, I’m only here because I have to be.”

“You know as much as I do that you don’t _have_ to be here,” He gave her a moment to come clean. The question hung in the air for a moment as she stared at him, “I know what you did for the butcher’s boy. It was the right thing to do, and I respect that,” he said plunging the needle back in, “Almost done, I swear.”

She looked even more like a wounded animal than she did when she was bleeding profusely, “Who else knows?”

“Just me and Davos – there’s security footage,” he conceded. She swallowed heavily and nodded, only now beginning to process what this meant.

“Please don’t tell anyone. Mycah took a gap year to save up money for school working for his father at the grocery store,” Gendry felt his heart swell for a moment, looking at the genuine concern on her usually cold face, “and his father has a terrible temper…” she drifted off and he didn’t need her to fill in the blanks. Years in the foster system had introduced him to many men with _terrible tempers_.

“Tell anyone what?” he said feigning ignorance as he snipped the thread and tied it off, “Regardless. I’m glad you’re back.”

He wrapped her hand with a fresh piece of gauze, taping it in place with some finality. They sat there for a moment, her hand still in his staring at each other, and he felt the overwhelming need to do something, anything, and _none_ of his ideas good.

“Do you want me to kiss it better?”

_That might have been the worst idea you had._

“If you so much as try, you’re going to need a second set of stitches,” she threatened, before her face softened, eyes flicking from his eyes to where he assumed the cut was on his cheek.

“Easy there Little wolf, I was joking,” he said, desperately trying to cover his tracks, “you’re not my type.”

It was a stupid thing to say. He watched for a reaction, but her face was a mask. She wasn’t his type, really and truly, but mostly because he had never met anyone like her before to even compare her to.

She breathed out with a gentle laugh, “you might need that second set of stitches anyway.”

He pressed his fingers gingerly across his cheek before finding his own cut.

"Shit," he muttered, looking down at the smear of blood on his own fingers.

She snuck an alcohol wipe from the kit and swiped it quickly across his cheek, and he cringed at the sting. The sound of Davos coming through the projection room door was enough to shake him from his pensive state as the two leapt apart.

Davos glowered as he shuffled into the room, halting at the doorway to look over the shards of glass littering the floor, “What did I say about endangering the staff son?”

“I did this,” Arya said calmly. Davos looked between her and Gendry, before breaking into a knowing smile.

“Oh no you don’t. I'm not having you take responsibility for every sorry bastard that crosses your path. Miss Stark, with me. We’ll finish up with the speakers,” he turned to face Gendry, “As for you – clean up this mess, and for the love of the seven, put a bandage on you’re bleeding.”

* * *

 

For the first time in a while, Arya felt like she wasn’t dreading coming into the theatre in the morning. Her hand was a bit more swollen, but she was surprised to see how well the stitches he had sewn had kept. But something was nagging right in the peripheries that had her always slightly annoyed, and it definitely wasn’t the throbbing pain in her hand.

When Dayne saw the injury he immediately began to dote on her – insisting she sit out tonight’s work lest she injures herself even more. Part of Arya’s mind wondered if this was just because he feared her not being able to teach him stage combat, but she simply shrugged it off. It wasn’t her sword-fighting hand. The next two days flew by, almost uneventfully – for all intents and purposes, the truce seemed to be holding.

When Tuesday evening rolled around, and the stage cleared of actors, she was surprised to find Gendry standing in the wings, shifting his weight anxiously carrying two black coffees in his large hands. It was clear he had been sleeping better – the dark circles under his eyes had faded, and his face was once more smoothly clean-shaven, making him look years younger. He passed her the cup into her good hand and she accepted gratefully, her stomach flipping. It was nearly supper time and she knew if she drank this coffee she would be up all night, but the gesture was too nice to decline. Work sped by even more pleasantly that night, but looking across the room at him wipe sweat off his forehead the strange gnawing feeling persisted. She convinced herself she was just hungry, but when she lay in bed that night, well-fed and watered, it became painfully clear that was not the case.

_Easy there, Little Wolf._

_You’re not my type._

She lay in bed that night turning the phrase over and over in her head. It was very stupid that _this_ was keeping her up at night. _This is a good thing!_ A cheerful voice intoned. _You don’t have to worry that those looks that he’s always giving you mean anything more than they do. You’re free to finally be yourself._

It wasn’t like he was _her_ type. He was too conventionally attractive – and it seemed like he knew it. If anything he was more _Sansa_ ’s type: broad-chested and strong, with shaggy dark hair that fell into his aquamarine eyes and… _stop that._

 _And that photo?_ Another belligerent voice spoke back. That damned photo. It had reappeared when he had texted her before and had been plaguing her ever since. She flicked open to their conversation, and met face to face with him once again, staring luxuriantly up at her from beneath heavy lids.

_Completely innocent. Just friends. Not even friends. Co-workers. Acquaintances._

Before she could think better of it she was writing in the message field.

_A: I was wondering…_

Sent. It was past midnight, the likelihood that he would even answer is –

_G: That’s weird that you’re wondering because you should be sleeping._

He responded with barely any hesitation.

_A: Shouldn’t you be sleeping too then? You never shut up about how tired you are._

_G: That’s because your boring play is putting me to sleep._

_A: That’s good to know, I’ll just start reciting Shakespeare anytime you’re being too bothersome._

_G: Oh no. I’ve given you too much power._

_A: I can’t sleep anyway, thanks a lot._

_G: I like the idea that I'm keeping you up at night._

She couldn't help but roll her eyes, thinking of his smug face as she walked right into that one.

_A: I can't sleep because you gave me a coffee at 6pm._

_G: Well remind me to never do anything nice for you ever again._

_A: Ha ha_

He was typing back, before going radio silent.

_A: Gendry…?_

He didn’t respond at all, and she tossed the phone back onto the nightstand, and wrestled into her covers. The next morning she awoke to two new texts from him – several hours later.

_G: Sorry, I was just writing that down into my reminders._

_G: Get some sleep Little Wolf._

Her stomach leapt uncharacteristically at the new nickname he had given her. No one called her nicknames aside from Sandor or Sansa, and she had generally disliked them. But this one…she wasn’t sure how she felt about it, but there was a reassuring quality about it that helped dissolve her annoyance at him.

She was surprised to find him the next morning in the lobby, waiting again with two black coffees.

_It’s almost as if the stupid bull doesn’t learn his lesson._

As much as she argued against it, the return of the oppressive heat and humidity had made it difficult for her to sleep – and a cup of hot coffee was exactly what she wanted, whether she could say so or not. He approached her, and as she opened her mouth to rebuff him he strode confidently past her and placed it on the ticket wicket. The girl inside smiled demurely, and it clicked with her finally – of course stupid little Arya horseface wasn’t his type when he wanted to _ring her bell._ Dayne swooped from the side and kissed her on the cheek, and she took that as her opportunity to leave. As she passed the two of them rapt in conversation on her way into the theatre, she saw the girl’s eyes follow her over Gendry’s wide shoulders, an annoying smirk playing at her lips. _They deserve each other._

Arya didn’t remember much of what happened at practice that day. Jaqen had them _finally_ running through some actual scenes, but just as her luck would go, none of them she was actually in. Her head felt fuzzy, senses distracted and dim with a sense of simmering rage.

Even at work that night, she managed to keep her distance from him. Whenever he attempted to close the gap, Arya would find some work to do away from him. It seemed to benefit her enough – Davos even managed to applaud her work ethic.

“See the amount of work you can get done once you stop bickering nonstop with the lad,” he smiled paternally, “I told you you’d like him once you gave him a chance.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say I like him,” she paused, sparing him a glance as he hacked away at building the stage extension.

“Well I’m glad you’re tolerating him then,” he said with a warm clap on the shoulder, “That’s the first step.”

Gendry, on the other hand, seemed to be rankled by her distance after two days of good-natured co-operation. He held the door open for her as she exited the theatre, before bidding goodnight to Davos once he had locked up.

“How’s that hand feeling?” he asked tentatively, hanging behind It was clear he was testing the waters to see how she’d respond.

The full extent of the suddenly cold, fair night pressed in around her. The roads were slick and shiny with evening rain, and she rubbed her arms, “It’s fine Gendry.”

“I just thought it might have been giving you some trouble,” he remarked, turning up the collar on his ridiculous coat, which suddenly wasn’t seeming very ridiculous at all, “You’ve seemed a little out of it.”

“It’s fine.”

The two stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, and she folded her arms around her mid-section. He began to walk away before stopping and doubling back.

“Is this about the coffee? Because you said you didn’t want a coffee,” he said, his face a little dumbfounded, “And Bella had specifically asked for one so...”

_Bella. Of course her name is Bella._

“No.”

He shifted anxiously kicking his heel to the ground, “Then what is it about?”

_Don’t say that bitch Bella._

_Don’t say that bitch Bella._

_Don’t say –_

“I was thinking about Nymeria,” she blurted, suddenly relieved she remembered another bitch’s name.

Gendry’s face slackened in disbelief, “Are you serious? _Your dog_. I apologized for all of that already.”

“Apologizing doesn’t bring my dog back,” Arya said coldly, glad that she could inflict a modicum of her annoyance back onto him. He breathed deeply, running his hands through his hair as he lost himself for a moment in thought.

“Ok fine. Let’s do it. Right now, let’s go find your dog,” he said with some finality. She couldn’t help it this time, laughing aloud, he couldn’t be serious.

“Really? Right now. I have a ride coming,” she said, struggling against the laughter caught in her throat.

Gendry folded his arms stubbornly, “Tell your bodyguard or _chauffeur,”_ he screwed up his face with contempt, “to hold back because we’re going to find your dog Nermina.”

“Sandor is not my chauffeur he’s my…minder,” she corrected him with some hesitation, “And her name is Nymeria.”

“Yes her,” he said, the scowl on his face making it plain that he didn’t find it funny.

“I’m not getting in a car with you again, last time you almost killed us both,” she reminded him, sidestepping his plans once more. He unfolded his arms, and fished in his coat pocket for a moment before producing a jingling keyring that he tossed at her chest. She unfolded her goose-fleshed arms to catch them against her breasts.

“You drive then,” he said. He was clearly set on this and she wasn’t going to change his mind, “I’m not letting you hang this over my head forever. You’re in control now.” 

* * *

 

Arya wasn’t precisely sure how she ended up in the driver’s seat of Gendry Water’s car. But there she was, regardless, feeling the gentle hum of the car idling beneath her as she waited in the parking lot outside of the theatre. Smelling the many smells. Seeing the many sights. She glanced nervously over the variety of buttons and gauges that were scattered across the dashboard, a bit overwhelmed.

“You…” Gendry said as he buckled his seatbelt, a demented smile coming over face, “You’ve never driven before have you?”

That wasn’t true. She had taken a couple of sessions of driver’s education before the accident, but afterwards, she’d lost any interest in learning to drive.

“ _No,_ ” she said stubbornly.

“Well the key is in the ignition and the car is on, just take it out of park,” he said. She followed his commands but in her own stubborn time. She didn’t want it to look like she was only doing it because he told her to. The car began to roll forward, the car tilting up against the curb in front of them, and Gendry cringed, “Woah, Woah, foot on the break.”

“You never said anything about ‘foot on the break’,” She slammed her foot down and the two of them jerked forward.

Gendry threw his arms out protectively, “You would know that if you’ve driven before. So now, I can tell you’re going to need _Driver’s Ned 101_.”

She set her jaw, trying not to laugh. _That one doesn’t count, you’ve said it before_ , she repeated in her head.

“Ok, you’re good, just put on your signal,” she flicked it on, and checked over her shoulder, at least she remembered that from class, “great,” he said in a coddling voice, “see you can do it.”

“Oh shut up,” she shot back, pressing her foot very lightly onto the gas, pulling it into the street. To her surprise, the act of driving was more intuitive than she thought it would be. Watching Sandor drive she always felt like it was a great deal of work, but once she was in the flow of things the nervewracking process seemed simple enough.

“Do you know your way back to the manor?” Gendry asked, quirking an eyebrow. He was still holding onto the handle above the window firmly, but at least he wasn’t micromanaging her every move.

She rolled her eyes heartily, “yes I know my way back to the manor, I live there, _stupid._ ”

“Well it’s a right, not a left up ahead,” he replied wryly, flicking her signal back the other direction.

“Who’s driving here?” she replied heatedly. _The nerve on the man._

“Wait, wait, hold up, in here,” he slapped the dashboard, and pointed ahead to the grocery store. She pulled up and quickly unbuckled his seatbelt, “I’ll be back in five,” he said hearteningly before disappearing into the store, “don’t miss me too much.”

She threw her head back into the rest behind her, rolling her eyes. This entire gesture was an insane venture, but Arya knew once she reached the manor the entire adventure would be over as soon as Sansa saw her and a handsome man parked in a dark car together. As far as Sansa knew, what they were doing was _very entertaining._

A knock on the window broke her distant thoughts, Gendry raised a fistful of plastic bags, and she reached across the car to unlock the door and push it open. He settled into the car, bags full in his lap, “Got some dog snacks,” he said lifting a handful of meat wrapped in wax paper, “and some people snacks.”

“For the last time, _I did not call you a snack_ ,” she said exasperated, pulling back onto the road. He lifted a bag of chips from the bag, and colour rose in her cheeks. Of course. Snacks for people. Not people who are snacks, which Gendry waters, with his stupid blue eyes and his stupid black chest hair was most definitely not.

“Oh, and one last thing,” he squeezed a paper cup into the cup holder, “a coffee for milady.”

“It’s ten. I’m never going to get to sleep,” she groaned, pulling back onto the road.

He shrugged, “that’s the point – it’s a stakeout,” he unwrapped the stacks of wax paper to reveal a handful of blooded, oddly cut slices of meat, “or should I say a steak-out? Get it?”

She did, but she wasn't going to dignify  _that_ with a laugh.

“That’s a lot of steaks, you’ve probably spent your whole paycheque,” she chided, as they stopped at a red light. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the corners of his mouth curl contentedly.

“Well I just dropped your name at the butcher’s counter, and _our ginger friend_ had no problem helping out.”

Arya blanched. She would have to explain to Mycah what exactly the theatre tech was doing buying bulk steaks in her name before he got that information to Dayne. Her face hardened, and managed not to talk to him for the rest of the ride home.

As they cleared the gates of the manor, Gendry unbuckled his seatbelt, hopping out of the still-moving vehicle. She watched him with great interest as he unwrapped the stack of meat, and sprinkled a handful of bloody cubes along the edge of the path. He did this every fifty or so yards all the way around the path of the house, as she trailed, slowly foot off the brake beside him. With a stuttering jog, he managed to hop back into the car, raising his bloody hands to her face.

“Out out cursed spot!” he groaned melodramatically.

“Out out  _damned_ spot,” she corrected, trying to bury a smile in her annoyance. It was bad enough she somehow had ended up spending her time _away_ from Gendry _with_ Gendry, but she didn’t have to enjoy it.

“You’re the expert,” he said with a shrug, He wiped his bloody hands on his pants, “Is there any place we’ll have a good vantage point of all of this?”

She thought for a moment. There was a point in the path where it curved upward against the knoll - up between the house and Sandor’s cottage. From there, on a clear night, she could see for quite a distance. She revved the engine as it struggled against the incline for a moment, before heaving through. Slowing to a halt, she perched the car on the edge of the hill. Gendry got out of the car, crumpling the bag of chips as the car’s suspension hitched. He was sitting on the still rumbling hood of the car. Arya hesitated to join him - it was cold outside and she had dressed for the hot, humid air this morning, not expecting the heat to break this quickly.

“Are you honestly, just going to sit in there and waste my gas?” He complained, knocking on the windshield.

“This was your idea. And It’s…cold,” she said lowering the window a bit. Her breath making tiny clouds of vapour.

“Too cold for a Northron girl huh?” he said teasingly, hopping off the hood and meeting her at the driver’s side window. He unwound his ridiculous mustard coloured jacket from his shoulders to reveal he was wearing a thick longsleeved shirt underneath, “Come on. The headlights are scaring any dogs away anyway.”

_He had a point._

She turned the keys in the ignition and stepped out of the car. At her full height she barely met his chest, he pressed against the car door, holding the coat out on two hooked fingers. She grasped it reluctantly and pulled it over her shoulders. It hung gigantic over her small frame, but it was still warm from his body heat. Hopping up onto the hood of the car next to him, she caught a whiff of its distinctive smell. It was neither sweet nor musky, but lingered on the edges of both.

They sat in not-quite-uncomfortable silence for a long while. He cast his eyes out into the distance, folding his thickly muscled arms underneath each other to fight the chill.

 _The poor bastard is losing that fight,_ she thought, watching a shiver ripple up his well-muscled back. She rolled her eyes, “Seriously, you’re wearing flannels, you shouldn’t be this cold.”

His jacket was no use to her when there was so much room for cold air to penetrate. She wriggled it off her shoulders, and offered him a sleeve. He scooted toward her, winding the jacket over his shoulders, crouching to make himself as small as possible, while his hip still conspicuously didn’t touch hers. Their shoulders grazed, and she flinched against his touch. But she couldn’t deny the warmth of his body heat was a nice change from the frigid night air. They sat in awkward silence for a long moment, drinking in each other’s body heat.

“In some cultures, this means we’re married,” he laughed keenly, clearly trying to break the tension.

“In _this_ culture, it means you’re being a baby,” Arya responded coldly, taking a sip of her coffee. She didn’t want to think of wedding or bedding Gendry, not when he was sitting so close nearby.

“How long has your dog been gone anyway?” He asked desperate to change the subject.

She had to consider it for a beat before responding, “Three years. I was in the hospital a month after the accident. She wouldn’t stop howling for days on end, so the house staff let her out one night, and she just never came back,” she said, her eyes suddenly watering, and not just because of the cutting cold breeze, “It was like losing them all over again.”

She felt Gendry’s large calloused hand gently cover hers soothingly. For a moment, she let his warm hand envelope hers. It was almost comforting. Her eyes wandered entreatingly between his hand and his face. She closed her eyes, letting her mind wander to what his hot skin would feel like pressed against hers. Rough hands on her soft body. His voice whispering in her ear.

_Easy There Little Wolf._

_You’re not my type._

When she opened her eyes, she could only hear the words ringing in her ears, and it zoomed her back to reality. Whatever this feeling was. It wasn’t, and _shouldn’t_ be anything. She bounded down from the car’s hood, tearing herself from the warm cocoon of his body heat.

“What?” he said crunching a mouthful of chips

“Nothing,” she said pacing back and forth, she grabbed her coffee from the hood of the car, and took a long, determined draught from it.

He seemed very perturbed by the sudden shift of mood,“If you’re gonna say something, say it.”

“Last night when you said I wasn’t your type. What is your type.”

He threw back his head with a laugh, “Really?”

“I’m just asking because I know people,” Arya replied, folding her arms against the cold.

“You don’t know people, you’re a lone wolf,” he shook his arms into the sleeve, slipping the coat back onto his shoulders. _That’s not true. I know plenty of people. Like Dayne. And Mycah. And…and…_

“And your not?” she shot back, without an adequate answer, “Your best friend is a 67 year old man.”

“Davos isn’t my best friend, he’s more like family. I have plenty of friends, like…Bella.”

_Bella. It always comes back to ringing that bell._

“You and Bella are close aren’t you,” she said suggestively, but the nuance seemed to be lost on him.

“As close as you can be with Bella Rivers really. She’s more like a sister to me than anything,” he shrugged, crumpling the bag of chips and clapping off the crumbs on his hands.

“That’s still family then. You’re not answering my question,” she pressed, suddenly dead-set on knowing the answer without wanting to know the answer at all.

“I don’t know,” his eyes raked over her face, “tall,” he paused for a moment, and went quiet. She could feel the breeze tug tendrils of hair out of her ponytail into her face, so she tucked it behind her ear, before swallowing heavily. His eyes still lingered on her, “Ginger, I suppose.”

 She couldn’t help but laugh coldly. _I can’t fucking believe it._

“Serious,” he said with some finality, “I guess that’s my type?”

It felt like she just had the wind knocked out of her. Of course _she_ was his type. She was the type of every man she’d ever met growing up in Sansa’s long shadow.

“I think I know someone,” she said suddenly, struggling for a mask to hide her bitterness behind. _This is a good thing_. A voice in her head said. _Sansa is so very lonely, and he’s definitely the type of man that Sansa would fancy – conventionally attractive, hard worker, good sense of humour, wants to kill me on occasion – they’d share that interest for sure._ She wouldn’t have to worry about what Dayne would think. They could finally just be friends and co-workers. Like they always really were.

“I look forward to meeting her,” he laughed, “and please, don’t set me up with Mycah. He’s a good butcher, but not quite my type.” The lightness in his voice set something off in her. She didn’t want to be waiting there with him indefinitely.

“This is useless,” she said her eyes darting anywhere but his smiling face.

“Arya.”

“That’s eight acres of woodland down there.”

“Arya,” Gendry said, this time more firmly, slipping off the hood of the car, eyes fixed in the distance.

“I had my chance,” she said to herself, “but she could be absolutely anywhere.”

“Arya!” he hissed, his strong hands clasping her dominantly by her by the shoulders. His hands seared against her cold skin, “She’s not _anywhere_ ,” he spun her quickly to face opposite him, “She’s _right there_ ,” he whispered in her ear. Feeding on the little mound of meat at the bottom of the hill was a massive grey dog, that was undoubtedly Nymeria.

She barely cared how close he was to her, she broke away from him without a glance backwards, tearing down the slope, careful not to overpower her run and take a tumble. He jogged tentatively behind her, and she could hear the occasional curse when he slipped against the dewy grass. She slowed to a crawl as she reached the bottom of the knoll, as Nymeria continued to gnaw on the bloody meat, happily unperturbed. She tiptoed closer, hand outstretched tentatively. Finally sensing her, the dog stiffened, a snarl rising on its bloodied muzzle.

“Nym,” she said, her throat hoarse and choked, “it’s me. It’s Arya,” she inched her fingertips towards the animal as a growl rippled through it’s body, “I know it’s been a long time, but we’re friends, remember?”

Her fingertips, skimmed across the soft tips of fur on her hair, and her jaws snapped at her, but Arya didn’t withdraw her touch – she knew better than that. She continued on, slowly, until her hand was winding through a tuft of soft summer fur. She slowly knelt into the wet grass, feeling the growl rumbling through the dog calm into its slow steady breathing. She scratched behind her ears and watched the dog’s head loll earnestly into her palm. They stayed like that for a while, staring intently into each other’s eyes trying to communicate all that she’d missed.

She looped her hands around the dog’s neck tightly, feeling its warmth and feeling hot tears trail down her cheeks as she buried her face into Nymeria’s neck. She felt fully at home that she hadn’t in a way she hadn’t all summer.

Suddenly a growl pulsed through the dog’s body, and resurfacing from the dog’s fur, she saw a petrified Gendry approaching down the knoll, arms perilously outstretched as if he were attempting to tame a lion.

“That’s just Gendry,” she whispered into the dog’s ear, feeling it twitch gently against her cheek, surely not loud enough for him to hear, “he’s a good guy. But don’t let him know I told you.”

“It’s ok. Nym won’t hurt you,” she said to him, trying to inconspicuously blink away the tears that trailed her cheeks.

His fingertips were trembling as Nymeria sniffed suspiciously at him, before licking tentatively at his fingertips, “She – she likes me –“ He collapsed onto his bottom, nuzzling his hand against her snout, and rubbing behind her ear.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Arya said relinquishing the tight grasp she had on the dog, “she likes chips, and you are all salty.”

A slow grin spread over his face, still transfixed with the dog.

“That’s because I’m a snack,” he said plainly.

 _I’m never going to live that down, am I?_ But she couldn’t hide her smile as Nymeria’s head tilted keenly into his scratches. His eyes were wide with wonder, his chest still heaving with relief, “ _Gods she’s beautiful up close,_ ” He murmured intently to himself _, “I can’t believe I thought you were a monster.”_

She watched him with great curiosity, stroking the length of Nymeria’s back absentmindedly. Nymeria was certainly intimidating – even some of her brothers were wary of her, but the way Nymeria nuzzled her face into his was almost endearing.

A howl rose up in the distance, and Nymeria stiffened suddenly, raising her head out of Gendry’s palm, he rose up slowly, looking out into the distance, “Girl, no,” Arya cooed, petting comfortingly at her neck.

“Arya,” Gendry said, straightening to his feet, and she looked to the edge of the thicket where a small group of dogs stood, eyes glimmering through the murk, “You have to let her go.” She hugged her tightly around the neck, and the dog licked up her cheek, before slinking out of her grasp, leaving her arms empty and cold. He was right though.

_Nymeria was hers, but she wasn’t._

_She was her family, but she belonged to the wild._

It felt impossible for her to be both things at once, but it was. She brushed off the grass on her knees, and he offered her a hand. She placed hers absentmindedly into it, as he hauled her to her feet with ease.

“She’ll be back,” Gendry reassured, looking at her in the distance, as she padded towards the small pack of her own. They watched in silence until they disappeared through the trees, Arya leaning into him gently.

“How do you know that?” she asked vacantly, tilting her head into his chest.

Gendry shrugged, watching the dog disappear into the distance, “I don’t.”

* * *

The climb back up the hill was significantly more challenging than the adrenaline rush, free-for-all scramble down. A couple of times Gendry found himself struggling against the slick hillside, only to find a small firm hand reaching out after him. He grasped her hand gratefully as she tugged him, surprisingly steadily, up to the crest of the hill where the car was parked.

It felt like a lifetime ago they were sitting on the hood sharing his coat, but this time someone else was leaning on the hood of the car, sipping the abandoned coffee. Someone _tall, ginger, and serious._  Suddenly Gendry felt the full weight of his lie crush in around him, as Arya stiffened, hand shrinking from his grasp, leaving it feeling cold and empty.

“Sansa,” she said breathlessly, colour rising in her cheeks, as the older woman’s eyes drifted from the damp grass stains on their knees and back, “It’s not what it looks like.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” she said, with a frigid, tight-lipped smile, “I’m sure it’s far more _entertaining_ than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly fluff for these dum-dums. Things are about to get hectic for me in a good way, so I decided to give you all a big ol' chapter. The next one might be a bit delayed, but don't y'all worried it's coming.


	8. Ghostlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya POV
> 
> Arya tries to dodge comeuppance with Sansa.
> 
> Deals with some unpleasant discoveries about onstage chemistry.
> 
> A late work night provides some well needed "team-building"

Sansa stood arms crossed against the hood of the car, where they had sat moments before, and Arya could feel the colour draining rapidly from her face. She didn’t look mad per se, which was a good first step. She just looked _curious_ , as if she were fighting an impolite grin, and that made Arya feel even more uneasy.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister…”

“Waters,” Gendry said quickly offering a hand, businesslike and curt, “Gendry Waters.”

It was surprising, watching him interact with Sansa. He had transformed suddenly, from a petulant child to a full-grown man – she felt an uncomfortable pull in her stomach thinking “ _So this is how he behaves when he wants to impress a woman”._

She slipped her hand in his and they shook hands lightly, lingering for a moment at the touch. Arya thought her stomach might wring itself into oblivion if they stood there a moment longer, watching her sister smile shyly at her…well she wasn’t sure what to call him. Co-workers sounded too informal, but friends sounded wrong too. _The stupid bull._ The words made her stomach lurch even harder.

“He has to work early tomorrow, and I have rehearsals,” she blurted impatiently, and their hands disconnected.

“Then we shouldn’t be keeping him. Thank you, mister Waters for helping to find my sister’s dog,” she said politely, hopping off the car, “and for letting it go. That thing could be a terror around the house,” Sansa laughed lightly.

_Nymeria is not a terror._

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration, I couldn’t imagine her being that difficult,” he said, offering Arya a wink, “I’ll see you after rehearsal tomorrow – it’s going to be a long one,” he said stepping into the driver’s side of the car.

“I’ll bring the coffee,” Arya replied contentedly in spite of herself, feeling Sansa’s gaze heavy on her.

Gendry rolled down the driver’s side window, and pointed back to her, “I’m holding you to that.”

The specs of his headlights disappeared down the knoll and into the distance, before Sansa turned to her, still smirking curiously, “ _I’ll bring the coffee?”_

“Stop,” Arya warned as they began to trudge back to the rear of the manor.

“You barely drink coffee, let alone buy anyone else a coffee,” Sansa pushed, this time incredulous.

“Well I’ve never been part of a team before, not like this anyway,” she replied staunchly, “Plus he’s been buying me coffees.”

Sansa’s eyebrows shot upward, “When I said you should ease up with the Dayne boy, I didn’t mean you should take up with someone new.”

“We’re just friends Sansa. He’s not my type. I’m not his type, he made that perfectly clear,” she huffed defensively, regretting the bitterness that managed to bite into her voice.

Sansa opened her mouth, looking quite content to continue to badger her sister, but Arya’s jaw set, and she closed her mouth again. The two didn’t talk until they reached the rear coat room at the back of the manor.

“Did anyone else see you two together?” Sansa said finally, as they closed the door behind them.

“No one,” she paused, actually _that_ wasn’t the truth, “Mycah. He saw Mycah at the grocery store, but he’s like family, he wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”

Sansa’s face was impermeable, meaning she was clearly angry, “Would he though? Those horrible rags pay good money for a lead.”

Arya was aghast at the implications her sister was making. Mycah grew up with them, he was like another one of her brothers, and he would certainly never do something to harm their family. But he did need the money.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” she said with a long sigh, as she trudged toward the staircase leading up to her bedroom.

“That’s a good plan,” Sansa said, a smile forming like distant clouds on her lips, “and just for the record…your _friend_ is much cuter than Ned Dayne – good work.”

“I would have to respectfully disagree, I like my boyfriend very much,” she reassured her sister.

“I’m not saying for _you_ , I’m saying objectively. A strapping young man like that, that black hair,” Sansa began, her voice warm and dreamy for a moment. Arya hesitated by the door of the study.

“Those blue eyes,” Arya muttered. There were a couple other features she felt her sister had missed, but she didn’t quite feel comfortable talking to Sansa about his large hands, his strong biceps, the gods forsaken way that trail of dark coarse hair skims over his perfect abs. She was already feeling guilty for the irrationally sick feeling roiling in her gut, as her sister described the stupid bull in even general terms, “objectively, I mean.”

“Of course, objectively,” Sansa repeated with a rare, warm smile, “and Arya – we have a meeting with Bran’s medical team Friday –”

Arya had already jogged up a flight of stairs as she called back, “I’ll be there! _”_

* * *

Arya was glad that Jaqen had announced proudly that today they would be “sucking the marrow” out of the first and second acts. It was a relief to move onto _actual scenes_ with both blocking and dialogue. As much as she liked laying on the floor in the sweltering heat or roving around the stage aimlessly doing piteous object work, there was nothing that really felt like actually performing.

Arya spent most of the day in the wings, reading over her lines, and looking over the quick blocking diagrams she’d jotted down. It wasn’t until the very end of the day, when she felt a light tap of the arm. Mycah stood there, his script rolled and wrinkled in his hands, as if he’d been wringing it nervously. She had been avoiding him all day, understanding the inevitability that she’d have to lie to him about the awkwardness last night at the grocery store. But he approached with his lips pressed tightly together in such a good-natured grin, she could hardly stay annoyed at him.

“Something weird happened last night,” he began tentatively. A lot of weird things seemed to be happening to Arya, so he’d have to be more specific.

“Oh yeah?” she said feigning innocence, not able to meet his intensely earnest glance.

“The tech guy – you know the young burly one, not the old nice one – he came into the grocery store at like eleven last night asking for steaks,” the words tumbled quickly out of his mouth like he could barely contain them. Arya tried to keep her face calm and placid, mask-like, avoiding any tell that would reveal her guilt.

“That’s not really that weird,” she said, glancing at Gendry towards the back of the theatre.

“The steaks aren’t the weird part. The weird part is that he asked for them _for you_ ,” Mycah said raising his ginger eyebrows. She didn’t respond. She was still formulating how she could stay ahead of this.

“Maybe he was just trying to get free steaks,” she shrugged. Mycah stared at her, for once, his glance not earnest or warm, but cutting and serious.

Arya sighed deeply. She hadn’t considered telling Mycah the truth, but now she’d have to, “It wasn’t for me, we were trying to find Nymeria. He…he almost hit her with his car a while back, and he was trying to make up for it and –”

“Sounds like you guys have been hanging out a lot,” Mycah said suddenly suggestively.

“ _We’re not_. He just drove me home once,”

“Twice,” he corrected. That one didn’t count because technically, she was driving.

“We work together,” she rolled her eyes hard at him, “Honestly, I’m trying to set Gendry up with Sansa…” the words felt strange in her mouth, so she barreled on, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything though.”

“I’m not gonna tell your boyfriend,” Mycah grimaced. Arya’s eyebrow’s knit pleadingly, “I promise. But… _you_ probably should.”

“You’re right,” she sighed. He was right. It was fine advice. She just…didn’t want to. She stared out at Dayne who was monologuing melodramatically, and considered what it’d be like to explain to him that they had spent the previous night huddled together for warmth staked out for her dog.

“Did you at least end up finding Nymeria?” Mycah asked finally, after considering it for a time. She nodded warmly.

“Arya! Act one, scene six,” she heard Jaqen call sharply, and she felt a panic overcome her. She stumbled on stage, before righting herself, remembering the few “liberties” Jaqen had decided to take with the text.

“My script says act one only goes up to scene five,” she asked, not uncertain, just annoyed.  It wasn’t unusual to add visual interludes, but the sheer amount he seemed to be adding seemed...a bit unnecessary.

“My dear, dear girl. I know I’m not the first to take liberties with the bard. It's called a creative vision. Edric, show her the text,” he waved her on. Dayne passed her a poorly photocopied page, and as her eyes skimmed over it, she realized it was simply a particularly juicy monologue about Hamlet appearing distraught, but acted out.

“So the audience is just going to see this, then watch me describe it again?”

Jaqen gently wiped his forehead, “One is in _showbusiness._ And by that I mean we are in the business of _show_ not tell. One must understand themselves and more importantly their audience…”

He drifted off conspicuously, as he paced deeply in thought at the foot of the stage. She didn’t need to ask anymore. She understood the subtext - _He doesn’t think Northerners will understand it._

She opened her mouth to argue, but he clicked his tongue and commanded, “To your ones!”

Arya closed her eyes and channeled what Ophelia felt like. In her mind's eye she pictured her parents funeral. The choked feeling in her throat when Jon said he was leaving. She let it fill her up from head to toe, until she didn’t feel anymore like herself. 

It was a simple scene - Hamlet bursting into her chambers, distraught, shaking, pacing. Dayne played the scene well, but a bit too large to be believable. She never pressed the subject, but it was enough to make her believe that he had never had something truly distressing happen to him.

“ _Less,_ Edric,” Jaqen studied him, “Do less with your arms, more with your face.” Arya felt proud that her instinct was correct, or at least correct in Jaqen’s eyes, “From the top now.”

He entered again, this time with a quiet intensity, shaking. She closed the gap between them, walking softly, much softer than she’d ever walk, face filled with concern, but Jaqen simply held up a hand, and shook his head.

“Arya - please, please. This is the man you _love._ You haven’t seen him for months at a time, and now you’re reunited. He’s mourning. He’s broken. He’s terrified. How does one comfort him?”

She grabbed his face and stared at him intently, and placed a concerned kiss on his lips. 

“Now that’s the right instinct,” Jaqen nodded, “But this time kiss him as you mean it,” Arya felt her stomach turn in a way that had very little to do with Ophelia’s emotional state. She _was_ kissing him like she meant it. She was kissing him the exact same way she had kissed him in real life, his mushy lips on her mushy lips, there was no real science to it. She tried the beat again, pressing her lips against his, but Jaqen loudly snapped his copy of the script against the stage. When she resurfaced from the kiss she could see it wasn’t, in fact, the script, but a copy of _The_ _Northstar_ , and her own face was smiling broadly back at her.

“I want you to channel this. Make it _real,_ ” he demanded, pointing to the magazine. Just thinking of the kiss Arya could feel the tooth throb where their mouths had clanked together. Her face flushed a great deal, and suddenly she understood the intention of this interlude much more clearly. 

_Jaqen wasn’t concerned that the northerners wouldn’t understand the monologue._

_Jaqen was concerned with pleasing the people who read that magazine._

The director sighed deeply, as they headed back to their places to take the scene from the top. He checked his watch, rather melodramatically, and looked back up to them, “It’s just not working today. Some days the spirit moves you, some days it does not. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

The actors began shuffling to collect their things, and relief washed over her knowing she wouldn’t have to prolong the embarrassment, but she knew it was only deferred. Dayne caught her by the hand as she was stuffing her things into her backpack and pulled her in close.

“Maybe we just need a bit more practice?” he said with a wry smile, placing a small kiss on her lips, “see that one felt real.”

It felt the exact same as the kiss on stage to Arya. She had been told her instincts were wrong plenty of times, but never about something as disconcertingly mundane as kissing someone she kisses often.

“Save it for the stage you two,” Gendry’s voice called out as he appeared from the wings, hands stuffed in his pockets. Dayne defiantly placed another kiss on her face, before stalking off sourly.

Gendry grinned as he watched him leave, “If it’s any consolation, _I believe_ you like your boyfriend. I just think he wasn’t putting in the legwork – er – lipwork.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” she replied drily, “glad to know you’ve put a lot of thought into my kissing techniques, Waters.”

He knitted his brow tentatively, put off by the fact that he wasn’t the only one making suggestive comments for once. He finally breathed heavily out of his nose, breaking the tension.

“I was promised a coffee rich girl. Make with the caffeine.”

* * *

The evening flew by frantically, Gendry showing Arya how to load films into the projector which would have been deceptively simple, if there weren’t so many of them. It was nearly nine before anyone realized they hadn’t eaten anything. Arya had been prepared to jog to a nearby cafe and buy a salad, when a squat, careworn looking woman appeared in the mezzanine precariously balancing a small stack of tin trays.

“Marya!” Gendry bellowed, and she waved even more frantically, before swooping to steady the swaying trays as she scurried down the staircase.

“I’d looked all over for you all up in the technical side, but I barely thought to look down here but of course you’d be down here, so close to the festival,” she rambled, resigning the trays onto the edge of the stage.

“Woah, woah, slow down there,” Gendry warned warmly, and the woman let out a sigh, relaxing her shoulders, before wrapping him in a vicelike embrace, “Look at you, I swear every time I see you you’re getting taller.”

“Marya, I haven’t gotten taller since I was eighteen,” he replied, voice pained.

She released him from the hug and he exhaled heavily, as she straightened his shirt and collar, watching Gendry be doted on was strangely satisfying, “Well maybe you’re not visiting often enough, and this old mind is forgetting.”

Gendry groaned, “I promise I’ll visit more often, but only if you make pie,” he stipulated. She waved her hand impatiently, eyes roving over to Arya curiously. Gendry composed himself, placing his hand gently on the small of Arya’s back, pressing her forward, “Arya this is Marya Seaworth, Davos’s wife, and my…well…Marya,” he paused for a moment, mouth agape before barreling onward, “Marya, This is Arya, she’s been helping out with the theatre this seaso –”

“I know who she is,” she interrupted impatiently. Arya managed a weak wave, pressing her lips together into a wary smile, but Marya spared no time in bundling her up in an equally crushing hug, as she was bound tightly into her shoulder, Marya continued speaking, “as if I wouldn’t know one of the Stark children. Face plastered all over the magazines,” she prattled on, before releasing Arya with a gasp, “nasty business. No privacy whatsoever.”

“Finally, someone who agrees with me,” Arya panted, palms on her knees, “Dayne doesn’t seem to think so.”

“The Dornish are always so showy, but you make a darling couple. My cousin married a dornishman and –” Marya paused, stepping back to get a better look at her as she straightened out, “ _My_ , isn’t she something, just a vision of your aunt Lyanna, isn’t she beautiful Gendry?” she asked, swatting him across the chest absentmindedly.

Gendry winced, “she is… _beautiful_ ,” he conceded through gritted teeth, and she wrinkled her nose playfully at him. She’d have to tease him about this later. Gendry clapped his hands together eagerly, “now what did you bring me to eat?”

Marya Seaworth turned out to be far less silly than she initially came across – shrewdly assessing the amount of work they had left. Arya assumed the years of living with Davos provided her with a near encyclopedic knowledge of the building they were working in. Sitting on the edge of the stage eating noodles out of the tin, Arya spent most of the time listening to Davos, Gendry, and Marya banter easily, and only occasionally responding. Watching Gendry with his makeshift family was equally as interesting as watching him interact with Nymeria – watching his stubborn veneer melt down revealing someone generous and warm. Occasionally, he’d catch her glance out of the corner of his eye, and she’d bury her gaze in her food, embarrassed at her own captivation with him.

By the end of the small meal Gendry had collapsed into the front row seats, as Davos wound his way to the foot of the stage. Arya laid on her back, feet dangling over the edge of the stage, sated with the heavy carbs and thoroughly ready for a nap.

The stout woman next to her hopped off the stage, “I best be on my way, you still have a fair bit of work ahead of you,” she placed a gentle kiss on her husband’s lips.

“What do we have left?” Davos piped up, cuffing Gendry on the knee to wake him up.

“J-just have to finish loading the films and I think that’s it,” Gendry stood up out of the chair, fighting a truly impressive yawn.

Davos stroked his beard gently, and looked between his wife and Gendry, “I’m no use to you for loading films. I’m going to head out with Marya.”

“Are you leaving me the keys?” Gendry asked, perplexed.

“No, I’ll keep those with me, but I wouldn’t look the other way if you take the emergency exit. It’ll lock behind you,” Davos said shortly, “You two have been doing so well you’ll hardly need me. Lad, if there’s any trouble, call me.”

Marya stood on her tiptoes to place a maternal kiss on Gendry’s brow, “now you promise you’ll come round for dinner.”

“I promise,” Gendry said, pink cheeked and thoroughly henpecked, but he couldn’t help but beam with being presented full authority to the theatre.

Marya swatted across Arya’s knees and she sat up from her elbows, “And bring this one along. I like her. Far more clever than the ones in the past.”

This did little to fade the flush running across the bridge of his nose, “I will Marya,” he sighed, for once not stubbornly renouncing their friendship. The little old couple tottled out of the theatre, and Gendry watched them, a stupid grin plastered onto his face. Arya slipped off the stage and made her way to his side.

“So you used to date girls who weren’t so clever, did you?” she asked with a teasing grin.

Gendry looked at her, exasperated, from the corner of his eye, “The other _apprentices_ weren’t as clever.”

“Whatever,” she said pushing lightly against his chest, “you think I’m _beautiful_ ,” she said in a singsong voice.

“I think motorcycles and swords are beautiful, I think you’re a pest, like the rats that live under the stage. Now come on there’s work to do.”

The two of them found their rhythm in their work fairly quickly – surprisingly, when given the opportunity to step up he was surprisingly responsible. Watching him glide effortlessly between tasks wasn’t just impressive, it was, frankly, a little attractive. Of course, attractive in a way for someone else. Not for her, of course. By midnight, they’d reached the final film.

“Last one,” he passed her the last hard drive to unload onto the projector, “you do the honors Stark.”

She plugged it in, rather anticlimactically, and it began to upload. She offered her hand in a high five and he slapped it so hard it stung. He nursed his hand, but she refused to let him see her wince. Now they had nothing to do but wait.

“You know the theatre’s haunted,” he said, placing a muscled forearm on the glass and leaning his brow on it to peer down to the stage below.

“Bullshit,” Arya spat, crossing her arms. The theatre wasn’t haunted. Nothing was haunted. There were no seven heavens or seven hells, once you were gone, you were gone.

Gendry turned to her, leaning his head onto his fist, “No it’s true. About a hundred years ago there was an old seamstress. The old theatre director wouldn’t pay for her costumes, so when she tried to go to the constable, he had her killed. She still walks the halls back here, wailing. Wailing for her pay,” he continued his voice deliberately paced, like he’d told the story many, many times before.

“Oh shut up,” she poked him in the stomach.

“What? Are you scared?” he folded his arms challengingly.

“I’ve seen things that could make your toes curl,” she said, looking up at him from under raised brows.

_Well, that came out wrong._

“I’m sure you have,” he shot back, a smug smile on his face, “if you’re not so scared, you wouldn’t mind heading down there and fixing the masking on the screen, while I finish up here.”

“Fine,” she replied stubbornly, slipping out the far door and down the ladder off the catwalk. When no one else was in the theatre there was an eerily oppressive silence that amplified every creak of a floorboard or groan of a water pipe. Arya knew there were no ghosts here, but she couldn’t help but find it unnerving in a way that was hard to describe. Once on stage, she tugged at the heavy black drapery, futilely trying to line it up with the sides of the screen, but it seemed like there’d always be a weird wave or curve. After some time she stepped back to the middle of the stage to examine the effect, and with a echoing snap, the theatre went pitch black. She stood stock still rooted to her place.

“Very funny Gendry,” she called into the darkness, hearing her own voice echo off the vaulted plaster walls. But no response came back. She stood there uncomfortably for a moment, before the hair began to stand up on the back of her neck. Just as she was about to panic, a surge of all of the stage lights blasted onto her at once, and she leapt on the spot, shielding her eyes dramatically.

“Haha,” she brushed herself off, “Great prank.”

But with the crescendo of an electrical hum and an almighty crack, the theatre went pitch black again, this time save for the actual emergency flood light. She heard a frantic rustle in the distance, followed by the gasp of the heavy steel door.

“Fuck!” she heard Gendry’s voice call out from the balcony, before hearing a great deal of muffled footfalls of what she could only assume was him sprinting down the stairs, two at a time. She couldn’t see anything other than the pool of orange light directly behind her, illuminating the emergency exit and the ancient fuse box. His stomping footfalls could be heard making their way onto the stage, as he began to pace madly, “what are we going to do,” he repeated on an endless mantra, eyes wild, voice wavering slightly, “Davos trusted me and I fucked it all up. I’m never going to finish this.”

He was now pacing circles around her, or at least she thought he was, she could only see slivers of him silhouetted in the light. She reached out to grab his arm, but he strode right by, “Listen to me, we’re going to figure this out.”

“I was an idiot to think I could do this – I’m never going to – ”

Sensing the overwhelming panic filling his face as he paced back and forth in the little pool of light, Arya did the first thing she could think of. Stepping up to him, she cupped his face forcefully and held his gaze. It was a trick Sansa had used on her when she was having panic attacks, and she supposed it could work all the same on this massive man.

He stopped in his tracks, still breathing heavily. In her hands, she could feel his cold clammy sweat, as he confusedly took in her assured, soft gaze.

“We’re going to figure this out,” she repeated, this time her voice was low and serious, “You’re going to figure this out. Because no one knows this theatre like you do. Say it back to me - we’re going to figure this out.”

“We’re going to figure this out,” he breathed back, his damp hands grasping onto her wrists.

“One more time,” Arya tried to fight the compulsion to brush her thumb against his cheek, but lost that fight, and immediately his breathing stilled. She felt the light prickle of his dark stubble on his jaw. It was a far cry from Dayne’s eternal babyface. In a terrible, forbidden part of her mind, she marked it a welcome change of pace.

“We’re going to figure this out,” his voice rose like a growl this time - strong, resonant, confident. He began to nod slightly, like a man possessed. 

“Why?” she slid her hands down his face to his neck to fix his askew collar. His eyes watched her hands roam. It was strangely satisfying, watching his eyes drink her in, flicker over her every movement. It wasn’t embarrassingly moony, it was a curiosity, as if she were a thing no one had seen before.

“Because no one knows this theatre like I do,” he replied as if he was stating a hard, cold fact. Arya pushed at his chest, breaking the spell surrounding them.

“Gods Gendry, you can sound so conceited sometimes.”

He began to search determinedly in a small workbench by the bay doors of the stage, before finding a small toolbox – the ones they had sorted screws into on his very first night. He pushed the small screw tins aside, producing a small plastic looking bauble, about the size and shape of a small yo-yo. She couldn’t see quite clearly what he was doing, but he worked quickly, and before she knew it, he’d flipped the house lights back on.

“What did I say?” Arya said, thoroughly impressed.

He shrugged, looking distantly back to projection booth, “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Gendry was right. They weren’t out of the woods. By their fifth attempt at trying to boot the projector, they succeeded at turning the unit on, but all of the films they spent the last four hours working on were gone. Like she said, deep in the woods. No breadcrumb trail.

_Maybe a witch could eat us and put us out of our misery._

“So what now?” Arya asked, looking at the blank screen, the nagging tiredness beginning to form into a headache at the back of her head.

“What now? I reload all the films. It was my stupid prank that did this,” he said, rubbing his eyes exhaustedly.

“It wasn’t a stupid prank,” she said, putting a hand on his forearm, “It was a very good jump scare.”

He looked between her hand on his arm and back up to her face, exhaustion beginning to cloud his brain, “Go home Arya.”

“I’m not leaving you. I’m responsible to see this through to the end just as much as you are," she said, suddenly serious and stubborn. He looked over her once more, as if he were trying to see if she really meant it, “the only thing is…Sansa…”

“Give me your phone,” he demanded, and she handed it over.

“She’s not going to listen to you – she’ll only hear it from Davo –”

But it was too late, he had already dialed and placed it on speakerphone, and she could hear Sansa answering groggily.

“Hello,” he said thickly, in a bizarrely deepened voice. He coughed once and then set his jaw, “Hello this is Mr. Seaworth from the theatre.”

His impression was so bad, it took all the self-control Arya had not to burst into a fit of giggles.

“What did she do now?” Sansa said impatiently.

“Nothing, nothing, just. She is going to have to work overnight tonight. In…preparation for the festival…we’re glad to offer her a bed and a place to rest, and…er…rest assured _lass,_ ” he emphasized lass so poorly that she had to bite down on her fist not to snort, “that there will be plenty of adult supervision.”

“Thank you Mr. Seaworth for your candor – please remind Arya of our plans for tomorrow.”

She hung up with a click, and Arya dissolved into a fit rolling belly-laughs, “Is – that – really – what – you – think – he – sounds – like,” she laughed so hard she had begun hiccoughing, “just wait til I tell him.”

“You will _not_ tell him.”

“I _could_ ,” she teased. He sighed heavily and looked at her with pleading eyes.

“What happened tonight stays between us. Now let’s get to work.”

* * *

It was three in the morning before they finished their work. They had grown deliriously tired throughout the night, hitting peaks of energy, and valleys of thick, bog-like exhaustion. Gendry offered her a hand to lead her as they descended the staircase down. But they didn’t stop at the lobby to take the emergency exit like Davos suggested, instead he was leading her down underneath the stage. She was so tired, she barely had time to consider he was probably going to murder her to make sure no one was beholden to his botched prank.

 _If he murders you, that’s like one long nap,_ she thought pleasantly.

Following through the industrial, labyrinthine corridors, Arya remarked dazedly, “didn’t you say there were mice down here?”

“Rats, actually,” he responded thickly, pressing onward.

“What’s the difference between mice and rats,” they turned the corner to face a dressing room door not unlike the ones up above. Gendry shrugged, opening the door and flicking on the lights.

“I dunno. Rats are just mice with graduate degrees?”

The two of them chuckled thickly as she turned to take a look over the rear dressing room. It was the same as all the other dressing rooms, except for a small stack of clothing, a questionable futon that looked indescribably alluring right now, and, Arya remarked, the cleanest looking shower in the theatre.

“Do you…live here?” she asked, through narrowed eyes. He was already folding the futon down and spreading out a blanket like a toreador.

He looked up, an expression of stupid hurt plain on his face, “Seriously? I have an apartment, just some nights – like this one – I have to sleep here.”

He patted the bed, and she flopped onto it, sprawling out. Gendry stood, untied the jacket he had slung around his waist sometime around 2am, and balled it into a pillow shape, before dropping it to the ground.

Arya sat up, suddenly very awake, “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he sighed, eyes squinting against the light.

_This is just pathetic now._

“A rat will bite off your nose,” she said dumbfounded, “who will love you without a nose?”

He leaned into the make-shift pillow he made.

“Tyrion Lannister doesn’t have a nose and he gets plenty of women,” He whined. His voice was thick and lazy, almost as if he were in a stupor. It had been one of the longest nights of Arya’s life, so she felt it hard to assign blame.

“Tyrion Lannister has all the money in the world to pay those women.” 

She grabbed him by the crook of his arm and dragged him with some difficulty to his feet, wincing against her injured hand. As his arm straightened her hand slid from his elbow to his wrist, as he sat next to her on the edge of the futon, “You _do not_ have all the money in the world.”

She was completely spent. Her brain was moving slowly, as if under murky bog water. 

“Thanks for reminding me,” Settling down into the edge of the futon he made his presence felt immediately, “I also _live_ in the theatre where I work,” he teased.

The mattress sagged underneath his weight and her thigh slipped toward his. She could feel the heady warmth his body exuded through his clothing. 

Gendry got to his feet and shucked his shirt first and began to unbuckle his belt. Arya looked away quickly, her breath sped up and she could feel her heartbeat spike.

“What?” he said shyly, stepping out of his jeans with a little hop, standing there in just a tank-top and a pair of boxers, he flipped the light switch by the door, and now only a the pale outline of the hall light creeping in illuminated the room. He dropped himself back down where he was seated before, “I’m a hot sleeper.”

_That’s...an understatement._

“I run cold,” she said, scooting distance between herself and Gendry. 

“I’d expect nothing less of a Northern girl,” he muttered, crawling up toward the wall.

“No, I mean like, I like to curl up in a blanket. It drives me mad in Braavos because it’s so hot.”

He lay on his back looking straight up to the ceiling, “So what you’re saying is you’re a _cuddler_.”

“More like a strangler,” she said coldly. Arya curled up to face away from him. When he was on the floor the futon seemed wide enough for both of them to sleep comfortably in their own corners, but as he sprawled out on his back, it suddenly seemed smaller than expected.

He laughed a bit, tucking his hands behind his head, “Well at least someone’s strangling Ned Dayne.”

“I am _not_ strangling him,” she rebutted, the idea of Ned, suddenly putting a pit of dread in her stomach. He went quiet. And for a moment she thought he had finally gotten to sleep.

“Is this your first time sleeping with a man?” he whispered out of the darkness.

She didn’t respond. She wanted him to take her disdainful silence as its own answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” He said flipping onto his side and leaning on an elbow, his eyes glittering complacently.

“It’ll be the first time _just_ sleeping with a man,” she shot back defensively, not turning to look at him. It was no one’s business who she had or hadn’t slept with, and she knew he’d simply use it to mock her in the future. She could feel he had moved closer but refused to turn to look at him. _You’re like a brother to me. An annoying, older brother,_ she repeated in her head, trying to disarm the feeling currently overtaking her body. She turned over her shoulder and scowled at him as he turned over to face her. _Your brothers don’t look like that_.

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered so close that his hot breath tickled her skin.

She palmed his face, pushing him back to his side. 

“I thought you cared about preserving my nose,” he said, clasping sourly at his face.

“Yes, I’m on the board of the Gendry Waters historical society,” she said, nestling into her side of the small bed, feeling him roll onto his opposite side. A sense of relief fell over her, as she scooted further toward the edge, suddenly very careful that their backs did not touch, “Goodnight, stupid.”

“Goodnight, _Milady_.”

_He always has to have the last word, doesn't he?_

* * *

When Arya peeled her eyes open, she was surprised to see a tiny glimmer of daylight peeking in from underneath the backdoor. She shifted looking over her shoulder, to see Gendry curled to the side, soundly asleep. He stirred for a moment, and she got to her feet, before he smacked his lips and settled back into sleep. Pulling on her boots, she remembered two lefts and a right, but it seemed to Arya in the light of day it took a couple more turns than she remembered the night previous in her stupor.

Once she reached the projection booth, she slipped inside the dark, muggy room, only to be met with the happy drone of the projector fan. She leaned over to log into the computer, breath shallow in her chest. This would be the moment of truth – either their work the night previous was successful or their nearly sleepless night had been in vain. She clacked in the password, and waited, eyes staring intently at the loading bar.

“Did...” Arya looked up to see Gendry leaning against the doorway, lazily buttoning a flannel over his bare chest, “Did everything work?”

“It’s still loading,” she replied nervously.

His face fell, and his voice suddenly became grave, hands fumbling for buttons freezing in place, “That’s…not normal.”

He meandered towards the computer, battling to stifle a yawn as he went, but failing in that effort. He stretched out revealing the sinewy v-shaped creases leading into the hem of his boxers. She bit her lip.

 “You look like shit,” she said, managing to wrench her eyes away from his chest, back to the computer.

“That’s because you snore, Little Wolf,” he breathed behind her neck, stooping down to get a better look at the computer. A tingle shot down her spine at the sound of the voice she couldn’t see right behind her ear.

“I don’t snore,” she said defensively.

She could feel the heat of his body radiating as he stood behind her, “How would you know?” he reached around her body to grab the mouse, enveloping her in his hard body, “How long has it been loading?”

“A couple minutes, really,” she said, feeling his hand rest over her own. This time, she didn’t move out of the way, “And I would know if I snored, someone would have said something.”

“So _I am_ the first man you’ve slept with. Ned Dayne definitely would have complained,” he laughed. She could feel the rumble reverberate through his chest.

The wheel on the screen stopped spinning, everything had loaded, “There it is!” he laughed triumphantly. She laughed along too. Somehow, they had managed to pull this off. She stood upright, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, leaning his chin on her collarbone, as they watched the films populate one by one, as the films began to finally appear. It was a gesture of victory, sure, but it felt surprisingly intimate, but she was still to tired to clock that it was something she _shouldn’t_ be doing.

“What do you have against Ned anyway?” She asked after a long time. He didn’t answer, but simply held on, swaying slightly for a moment. And then it happened. she felt him hardening through the fabric of her jeans, as she pressed flush to his body.

 _That’s…that’s not because of me._ She convinced herself. Growing up, Theon had told her that they could happen for nearly anything, and the triumphant victory over power-surges seemed a good enough reason. But Gods damn it, the feeling of him pressing up against her was enough to pool throbbing heat between her legs. _But it’s not like I’m going to act on it._

“He doesn’t deserve a woman like you,” he murmured next to her ear.

_Ok, this might not be about power surges._

There were two choices she could make. She could turn on him and get into a petulant argument about how Ned is a perfectly serviceable boyfriend. She could go home that morning feeling fine and free of guilt and fix all the sociopolitical problems with Dorne by dinnertime and be a good little lady. Or - she could give in to the urge to wind her hips into his manhood and make the bull of a man purr like a kitten.

_Your choice._

She gave in to the overwhelming urge to press her hips into his, feeling the heat of his body press into hers.

"What about what I deserve?" She rolled her hips against his, pushing her ass into his already hard length. A strangled moan of pleasure rolled at the back of his throat, only pushing her to press harder against him, feeling him grow almost impossibly larger against her hips as he began to thrust in time with her. He was larger than she expected, and she knew if things went far enough, she was _fucked_. He grasped hard against the desk with one hand, leaning forward as he bucked against her. The other hand, still covering hers traced up her arm then neck, before threading his hands through her hair. He pulled firmly, but gently, exposing her neck to his mouth.

"You deserve everything you want," he growled into her skin. More than anything she wanted him to close that gap. To feel the heat of his mouth searing against her skin. His lips grazed her neck, before she curled her hand against the nape of his neck, urging him forward. His mouth pressed into her neck earnestly, trailing wet, breathless kisses up her neck and toward the place were her neck and jaw met, "But you have to tell me what you want."

She clutched at his balled fist, guiding it under her shirt, over her breast, "I want this, Gendry," she breathed, luxuriating in the pleasure running through her body as he palmed her sensitive tits for what felt like a small eternity, sucking hard against her neck. Before his hand travelled down, skimming over her stomach. She winced, expecting his hand to withdraw once it trailed over the tangle of scars – but to her surprise, his hand merely traced over them, downward towards the heat between her legs. She felt his fingers skim the waistband of her panties tentatively. She didn't have time to wonder what panties she was wearing, suddenly wishing they were something sexier than what she had put on the day before.

"You have to be more specific," he hissed, detaching his mouth from her neck and nipping playfully at her earlobe. She knew he knew what this was. She knew he didn't need to be told. But he wanted to hear it. His fingers dipped deeper inside her curls, dragging torturously through her already sopping folds, sawing in and out without actually entering her.

"I want _that_ ," she breathed back writhing hard into him. His rough, calloused fingers skimmed lightly against the sensitive bundle of nerves at the very tip of her sex, swirling evasively around the slicked, swollen flesh. She mewled obscenely, grinding even harder into his engorged length. He groaned wickedly into her neck at the motion, fingers finally kneading indulgently at her clit.

“ _More,”_ she cried softly, breath hitched at the back of her throat, “ _Gods more,_ Gendry.”

He slipped his hands from her, and she whined desperately, disappointment palpable.

If he wanted to tease, two could play at that game. She withdrew back, disconnecting her ass from his hips, spinning to face him. She finally let herself look over his body - really look over him in a way she had never allowed herself to look before, and _Gods_ he was beautiful. His flannel was only half-buttoned, shirt fastened to the wrong holes. She undid the buttons, revealing the flush sprawling across his bare chest as he breathed deeply still. She splayed her hands across his midsection, raking nails gently up the trail of dark chest hair in the center of his abs, resting her hands on his defined pecs. She peppered his chest with soft open mouth kisses, the only place she could reach without getting on her tiptoes, and he shuddered contentedly under the tender gesture. She smirked knowing that such a small motion could affect him like that. He placed his fingers under her chin, tilting it upward as he leaned in, his blue eyes blazing.

"Say it," he breathed, lips brushing hers. Wrapping her hands around his neck, she captured his mouth decisively. Her tongue swept at his lips and they opened in earnest as the kiss deepened. She wanted all of him. She wanted her lips on his. On his neck. On his shoulders. On his back and thighs and chest.

"I want you," she breathed desperately, unlatching from his greedy mouth as he continued to trail kisses down her jaw and neck, A repetitive nagging sound began to bleat in the distance, but Arya barely cared, she breathed into his cheek, “What do you want?”

He placed one final, burning kiss on her lips. She leaned into it dazedly as he pulled away, still drunken and wanting more. But the distant sound was only growing louder and clearer, until it hit an unbearable roar.

“I want you to wake up.”

And with a deafening crescendo, she awoke with a small gasp to see light leaking faintly through the back door of the dressing room, the alarm on her phone buzzing gently by her ear. Except this time she was alone on the futon. She felt a light, stiff cover shift over her, and she smelled his familiar musky smell, before she realized she was clutching onto the collar of his mustard coat. She managed to sit up straight, letting the coat slip off her, still shaken from the visions her subconscious had managed to conjure.

For once she didn’t have to be told what she wanted. She didn’t have to think twice. For once, she knew.

And for once it was something she couldn’t have.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, I am back. I apologize for the lateness it was a very busy week that involved some serious work all-nighters (none of them as smutty as this). I'd apologize for the slowburn too, but I'm pretty happy with this chapter. As always, thank you for reading, please comment, kudos, whatever.


	9. Filed under "R"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one picks up where the last one left off - with some really bad ideas.

Gendry spent all night drifting in and out of light sleep, unbelievably careful not to roll over, lest she think he had some other plans. Of course, he _had_ other plans – perfectly fleshed out scenarios of what he wanted to do with her, but all of them were filed safely away in a mental folder under R. R for “Really fucking stupid idea”. But ever since that afternoon as he watched her repeatedly kiss Ned Dayne (cheering mentally, every time Jaqen had called it “wrong” or “not believable”) something animalistic and possessive was itching at the back of his mind. His conscious mind had danced around it, but this tired he could stare right at it – light a burst of sunlight. He wanted her to want him. The idea of it made him harder than any compromising position his minds-eye could cast her in.

Gendry awoke only a few hours later, frustrated to find he had failed to stay curled facing the wall, and instead was laying flat on his back. He tried to slowly roll himself back over, but found his arm strangely weighed down. He blinked rapidly, eyes still gummed with sleep. As his eyes adjusted, he froze completely. It became immediately apparent that it wasn’t just he who failed at the task of staying to his own corner.

Her face was nestled into his chest, hand resting gently on his collarbone. _Gods, she is a cuddler._ A warm feeling laved over him like his heart could explode. He gazed at her with such worshipful admiration, watching her chest rise and fall in little breaths, her long eyelashes flicker as she dreamt. They stayed like that for a long while, accidentally tangled with each other. He battled against his own heavy eyelids, struggling against the idea that his own exhaustion could steal this moment from him when a small, indecent whine rose up in her throat.

Suddenly he didn’t have to struggle against sleep anymore. He was wide awake. He could feel the blood rushing to his cock as her head lolled into the crook of his arm, letting out another rasping groan. It took all he had not to grasp himself right then and there, as the whining intensified until a single clear word formed, “- Dayne any way -” suddenly, a rush of guilt hit him. If they awoke tangled together like this, it wouldn’t be good. And by not being good, he meant she’d never speak to him again. Using his free hand, he gently picked up her wrist and dragged it off his chest, cursing himself all the while, then wriggled his trapped arm free with some difficulty. He turned to face her laying there, propping himself up on an elbow, as he gently nudged her back into the position she had started. Removing his hands slowly she stirred for a moment with a gasp. He froze, cursing his clumsiness.

Shifting his weight, he waved a hand experimentally over her face. _Nothing_ , _thank G –_ he had spoken too soon, as her hips ground intently into his half-hardened cock. A quivering gasp sprang from his lips as pleasure surged through his body.

_This is bad._

_You have to stop this._

He inched backwards until he felt their bodies regretfully part, heaving a quiet sigh. But it was only a few moments before he felt her on him again – this time pinning him up against the wall. Her hips wound again dragging up, then down his entire length, he found himself frozen with pleasure. He was stifling himself by biting down into his bottom lip with such force that he had drawn blood.

Another clear word formed on her lips as her motions became frequent and harder, “More. Gods, more,” Her voice dragged him back to reality.

_This isn’t for you. This is for –_

“Gendry, _I want it,”_ she growled distantly.

It felt as if the blood in his veins had set fire as his senses roared to life. He wanted to tear their clothes off, grab her hips and guide her onto his throbbing cock, feel their bodies connect in blissful oblivion. He wanted to drown in her. He moaned triumphantly, this time not managing to stifle it. She froze for a moment, stirring in her sleep.

With a flash of panic, just as white-hot in intensity he realized _this_ was much worse than anything he had filed in “R”. This was much worse than waking up cuddling. But more than anything, he realized that he wanted her to want him, not just in the shadowy corners of her subconscious, but in the bright, lucid light of day. He didn’t want a distantly mumbled _I want this_. He wanted an enthusiastic _I need this_.

He managed to squirm back just inches and disconnect his body from the friction between them. He sidled off the bed, stepping into his pants. He didn’t know where to go, he thought buttoning a shirt imprecisely, but he couldn’t be here. There was no way he could get back to sleep now. He opened the door, letting in a blast of air conditioning into the stale dressing room, the clinical hallway light bathing over her small, pale body. She shivered at the sudden rush of cold air. Or maybe, Gendry hoped optimistically, against the sudden loss of the heat of his body wrapping hers. He hesitated at the doorway shutting it gingerly again. Grabbing his balled-up jacket and laid it over her, with a slight smirk, he thought it best to let her think she was a _cold sleeper_ for another night.

* * *

“I want you to wake up.”

And with a deafening crescendo, she awoke with a small gasp to see light leaking faintly through the back door of the dressing room, the alarm on her phone buzzing gently by her ear. Except this time she was alone on the futon. She felt a stiff, light cover shift over her, and she smelled his familiar musky smell, before she realized she was clutching onto the collar of his mustard coat. She managed to sit up straight, still shaken from the images her subconscious managed to conjure.

Her phone buzzed again – a text from Sansa.

_S: Sandor will be round at 11 to pick you up, be out front._

_Well you can’t just stay here all day,_ she thought pulling on her boots to face the day. She took precisely the right amount of lefts, and rights, resurfacing in the bright industrial hallway. She lingered by the projection room doorway, curious as to the outcome of their night’s work. But placing her fingertips on the doorknob, her mind flashed back to the searing kisses sending thrills down her spine, and she withdrew quickly, turning away back toward the lobby.

Exiting into the lavish, warm lobby, she shielded her eyes from the daylight pressing in. It had to be early – neither the actors or the theatre patrons, not even Bella was in her ticket wicket.

“You’re here early,” a low rumbly voice intoned from the entrance door. Panic overwhelmed her as she turned to see Davos hobbling in, a warm smile playing across his face. Clocking her unease, his kindly face fell, “Did something happen last night? You look like hell.”

“No,” She said a too quickly, tucking her hair quickly behind her ears, “Nothing happened.”

Technically, it was the agreed-upon half-truth. Nothing did _happen_ last night, but it somehow it felt like everything changed. Some part in her that had laid long dormant now had was chasing that desperate stupid wish that something _did_ happen.

“Excellent child, let’s see how everything turned out,” he said happily, “you mind offering an old man a hand? I’m still a little stiff from last night.”

She couldn’t help but offer him her arm, as they found themselves returning back to the scene of the crime. The room was, if possible, even more oppressively hot than her mind imagined in her dream, but that might just be the heat rising in her face. Gendry was already standing over the computer inside, his shirt thankfully buttoned, but buttoned one hole off in a way she found exceptionally annoying.

 _Or maybe you just want to put your hands on him again_ , the little voice in her head thought teasingly. _No. I don’t want that. I want my to put my hands on my boyfriend…Ned…I mean Dayne…_

As she approached, they exchanged knowing glances as Davos looked over their thankfully finished work, but she couldn’t even be fully relieved – it almost felt too easy.

_Well this could still be a dream._

She remembered waking up from particularly realistic nightmares as a child, and Jon telling her she could always tell a dream from reality by plugging her nose to hold her breath. In dreams this did nothing – you could hold onto your nose forever, and you could still breathe. She surreptitiously held her nose for a beat, before choking on the lack of air. _This is definitely not a dream._ Davos looked at her concernedly, and she turned her gasp into a fake cough.

“Everything looks in order here – thank you two for your hard work last night,” Arya gulped, and Gendry averted his eyes shyly, “and for coming in so early this morning. Really shows initiative on _both_ your parts,” he hobbled to the doorway, and broke into a wide dreamy smile. “with both of you here, Marya and I might get to finally attend opening night.

The door shut behind him with a click and they stood rooted in place for beat, before Gendry closed the distance between the two of them with impressive speed, burying her in a triumphant bear hug. She felt his hands dig into the back of her shirt. Her arms fell limp the side. She was surprised that his embrace could feel so soft with such a toned body. It felt completely different than what she had imagined in her dream, but somehow, better. She felt him sigh deeply, and something tense came undone in her, and she melted a little into his chest. Lifting her own arms to rest against his back, breathing in his intoxicating scent.

“I can’t believe this all worked out,” he relinquished her to arm's length, and she could feel her heart pounding in her ears, “I couldn’t have done it without you,” his eyes were brimming with pride that he wasn’t trying to bury in sarcasm. Her body was flush with his, it would only take a little move, just a little reach for her lips to touch his. He ran his tongue over his lips the way he did when he was nervous or stressed, and she could almost feel the feeling of his tongue running over her own bottom lip.

“Really,” she croaked, pulling herself out of her reverie, her voice feeling smothered and strange at the back of her throat, “Really it was nothing. I was just encouraging you.”

“No – it wasn’t nothing. You worked really hard last night. Breakfast is on me today,” he said with a smile, finally letting go of her completely and making for the door, “You just have to tell me what you want.”

She froze entirely, breathing suddenly shallow, reliving the panting moans into her neck and the feeling of his hot mouth on hers.

“Arya?”

“A bagel is fine. By the way,” she began, struggling for words, “the coat.”

“Oh yeah,” he laughed easily, “well. You’re a cold sleeper,” he finished before leaving the projection booth. Her feet wanted to follow him to the coffee shop on the corner. Make fun of the way he says things in his Southron accent. Watch him fumble trying to stack the bagels on top of coffee before resigning to let her help. She wanted to reach up and kiss him when he did because it meant he wasn’t being stubborn for once. But her mind rooted her to the spot. She waited until she heard the click of the door in the stairwell that meant that he had a significant head start, until she headed down into the lobby, suddenly aware of what it would look like if someone like Dayne or even Bella saw them coming down together this early in the morning.

_You can’t want him. He doesn’t want you. You already have someone._

And that someone came marching in sometime after ten, blonde hair tousled just so by the cold wind.

“Arya – you’re here early,” he said curiously. The sight of him made her stomach turn, but she had to know. She knew the pleasure she’d simply imagined, a curious ember that kindled a fire, but she needed to know if there was any spark left with Dayne.

“We need to talk,” she replied, grabbed him by the wrist and had dragged him into a disused passage.

“What is it is everything oka –” But before he could finish the thought she lunged at him, flinging her arms around his neck, placing a bruising kiss on her lips. His slight hands flew to her hips, and she pulled herself flush to him.

Their tongues tangled for a moment, mushing fierce, sloppy kisses into each other’s mouths before his fingers laced through her brown hair. All she could picture was Gendry’s strong hands pulling gently against her hair to expose her neck, before lavishing it with kisses.

_No. You’re kissing Dayne._

But her mind had already opened the door – escaping the clumsy kiss, receding back into the hunger the mere idea of kissing Gendry had ignited. But the kiss wore on to the point that she couldn’t ignore it any longer. It felt like she was drowning. Not in a good way.

 _“You have to tell me what you want,”_ the stupid bull’s voice rang in her ears.

_She wanted this kiss to be over._

Over Dayne’s shoulder the sound of the door being wrenched open snapped her back to reality, as she tried to push him away but couldn’t quite fast enough. She panted for a moment, sucking in air greedily as she stepped away from him to see Gendry’s face filling with that same cold sneer she’d seen countless times before, and suddenly her veins felt like they were filled with ice. He laughed bitterly in his throat, before pushing the takeout bag into her chest. She opened the paper bag and absentmindedly took a bite of her bagel, eyes trailing him as he stormed up the staircase to her right, instantly regretted it – her mouth was bone dry, and chewing was making her feel sick.

“That was nice of him,” Dayne said brightly, “I see you two are getting on much better now.”

“Yeah…we really were,” she replied, eyes lingering on the place where he’d stormed out of the hallway.

Dayne curled a loose tendril of hair around her face, “I wanted to ask you about something.”

“What?” she snapped, a bit too harshly. He didn’t seem to clock the edge in her voice.

“Are we coordinating for the gala tonight?” he asked, “I have a couple different coloured ties, I was just wondering if we were going to match to you, or you to me…”

He continued to blather on about tie styles and colours – oxford or bowtie – but she didn’t remember him saying _anything_ about the opening night gala at all.

“You never said anything about the gala,” she said accusatorily, dropping the rest of the bagel into the bag, “do you want this?” she asked Dayne and he happily obliged.

“Yes I did,” he said thickly through a mouthful of starchy bread, “two weeks ago – when we were out for ice-cream you said there was an opening night gala that everyone has to go to and I said we should make an appearance. Then we talked about it backstage the first day here, then a couple more times over text.”

In the faintest, foggiest recess of her memory, she did remember agreeing to go with him. But so many things were happening that had overtaken the importance of attending the gala – namely making sure it was happening – that she had barely remembered. She felt like it was almost a _given_ that when she started her community service that she’d be unavailable to attend the events she’d be working.

“I’m a terrible girlfriend, I forgot…” she drifted off, but Dayne’s eyes softened,

He took her hands reassuring her, “you’re not a terrible girlfriend, you’re just delicate, like a little… _porcelain wolf_ ,” she fought against the full-body cringe she felt rippling through her body, as he murmured in what he assumed to be a reassuring voice, “you get overworked and you forget things. I wouldn’t blame you.”

He held her flush to his body, and she felt nothing, except the lingering repulsion at the term _porcelain wolf._ Dread filled her completely. She couldn’t keep up the charade with Dayne much longer

“You’re…too sweet,” she shrugged at him, “but, I think I might have to actually…work at the event,” she said distantly, but Dayne’s face scrunched dispassionately.

“Oh come on, we have to make an appearance. People will love it. Your father was going to marry my aunt – us together, it’s almost like we’re righting a wrong.”

“I never…thought of that…” she trailed off. She had never considered that of their relationship, but the way he said it, it was very clear he had.

“You practically own this place,” he said very quickly, changing the subject. She rolled her eyes and he tried to be persuasive in another way – he pressed little kisses into her cheeks, “you can bend the rules a little bit.”

“No, I can’t. That’s kind of the point. It shouldn’t matter how much money or influence you have, the rules should be the same,” she said stepping away, only more annoyed by his cavalier behavior.

“But the rules aren’t the same,” he said confusedly, “Arya?”

“I have an appointment this afternoon,” she said distantly, “and I forgot my backpack in the projection room,” she finished before bounding up the same staircase. Dayne had a point. The rules weren’t the same. But they should be.

* * *

 _You’re a stupid, stupid bull._ Gendry paused for a moment, busying himself in the projection booth trying to shake from his head her dumb nickname for him. _Person. You’re a stupid, stupid person, not a bull. If anything you’re acting like a cow right now,_ the voice in his head said contemptuously.

_Do you want some breakfast, milady?_

_And what do you want, milady?_

_Oh, you want to put your tongue down Ned Dayne’s throat, milady?_

He slammed down a heavy box on the workbench, and the tools hanging off the slatted walls rattled.

_Well never you mind me. Just Gendry being pathetic._

“Woah,” her voice chimed from the entrance and his body tensed immediately, feeling all the embarrassment laser focus into his face as he pressed his mouth into a thin line. He watched her from the corner of his eye grab her rucksack and turn to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, trying to bury his seething anger in his throat. He turned to the projector, refusing to make eye contact with her. _Off for round two with the fucking Dornishman, no doubt._

“I’m heading out for the afternoon, I have – ”

“Oh I get it,” Gendry laughed bitterly in his throat, “Have fun at your gala.”

“For your information, I told Dayne I’d have to work tonight, but I’m sure he’d be glad to know that you gave me your blessing,” she said, crossing her arms, just as stubbornly as he was.

 _Fucking hell, I needed the extra hands_. He thought, but he was too stubborn to let her know that.

He set a film to play, and made for the catwalk door, one foot in the room and one foot out, “What’s wrong with you?”

_What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with **me**? I don’t know woman, you spend the night teasing me and you go right back to your boyfriend. You can make out with your boyfriend on your own time, but in my theatre, my rules._

“Excuse me, I can make out with my boyfriend on my own time?” she said, eyes blazing now. He hadn’t realized that he had said that last part out loud, but apparently he had, “What happened to _no one is the boss,_ ” she squared off against him, “What happened to _co-workers, equals?_ ” he ignored her, “and what’s your problem with Ned Dayne anyway?” she asked. The words sounded cautious and calculated in a way that made him uncomfortable.

He finally dragged his eyes away from the screen to look at her, wearing a curious, slightly dumbfounded expression, “Nothing,” he said, mouth still a bit slack, “No problem.”

“Just because you seem…upset,” she asked, drawing out her words. He walked from the doorway to the workbench at the back of the room, rooting desperately for something, trying to avoid the inevitable explosion that was roiling right beneath the surface.

_My problem with him is that he’s self-absorbed. My problem with him is he’s a snob. My problem with him is he barely even pays attention to you._

“My problem with him is that he’s a boring Dornish bastard,” He looked her in the face, no longer able to control the words coming out of his mouth, “They have what, three, four girls going at any given time. I don’t want you to get hurt because I - ” her lips were slightly parted as he managed to stem the flow of verbal vomit. He hesitated for a second taking a breath to regain his wits, minds-eye replaying the fierce kiss he’d witnessed in the corridor. He slowed his breathing. That’s not your family. That’s Arya Stark. As much as you joke, that’s _your_ _lady_.

“because I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he said, suddenly extremely embarrassed at the softness he’d shown.

“You don’t get to choose who hurts me,” she breathed deeply, arms crossed. _Of-fucking-course,_ he didn’t get to choose who hurts her. That was her decision and hers alone.

Her eyes gleamed with a softness that made his brain short-circuit on self-doubt, and a new, uniquely horrible lie took root, “It’s just… _you’re like a sister to me._ I mean, not like a sister to me, but like - _”_

_Now that should have been filed under “R” as well, for “Really fucking stupid thing to say”._

He was left fumbling for words, mouth open, ready to explain that _actually,_ she was nothing like a sister, but her phone buzzed, and she took the opportunity to cut their conversation short.

“That’ll be Sansa,” she sighed, heaving her backpack onto her shoulder, “see ya, Waters.”

* * *

Arya hated everything about Doctor Luwin’s office. She hated the cold institutionalized lighting. She hated his framed degrees. She hated the books that lined the shelves that didn’t look warm and inviting like the books in her father’s study did. She hated the smell of industrial grade cleaner. She hated the squeaky vinyl armchairs, but more than anything – she hated the news that they got in Doctor Luwin’s office, because it was rarely good. She sat there picking at the edges of her cuticles, avoiding glancing at Sansa or Bran, as they sat in the office, waiting. When Doctor Luwin entered the two sisters got to their feet and Bran looked up, eyes clear and bright.

“Have a seat, please, please – Ms. Stark,” both Arya and Sansa looked at Doctor Luwin, “I mean, Arya – it’s not every day you have both Stark sisters in your office,” he approached around his desk and settled in, “what have you done to your hand there? Let me see, let’s have the simple things out of the way early.”

 _Simple things._ The thought of it made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

“It’s nothing, just a little glass cut,” she said, unwrapping the gauze to show the doctor. He took her hand, examining the incision.

Bran perked up with an explanation, “She’s been volunteering with the theatre.”

“Excellent, excellent program they have this summer, looking forward to seeing you perform,” he removed a pen-knife from his coat pocket, “Who did these stitches?”

“A friend. I mean, a coworker,” she began, Sansa’s eyebrow quirked upwards, and she settled on, “an acquaintance.”

“They’re very well done – you’re healing up nicely. I’m sure you’d like them out for the gala tonight.”

It seemed impossible that everyone could know her social schedule except for her, but she nodded shortly. If Gendry didn’t want her help, then he wouldn’t have her help. Doctor Luwin unravelled the stitches, setting her hand down. A faint pink scar had formed where the wound had been. She flexed her hand a bit, getting used to the feeling of the new skin.

“Now to more serious business,” he said, breath settling gravely, “We wanted to wait until we were absolutely sure.”

Arya sucked breath through her teeth and looked over at Bran, but his face was impassable as usual. Sansa held both their hands. Doctor Luwin looked at them with watery eyes for a moment, before looking down into his folder and reading the findings aloud.

“We’ve been aggressive with physiotherapy, but on this timeline, the team has concluded that it’s unlikely for Brandon to regain any more function in his lower body.”

“That means,” Sansa breathed, but didn’t finish the sentence.

“The damage is permanent. Bran won’t be able to walk again,” Luwin concluded gravely. The words hung in the air for a moment, none of them daring to speak.

“You’re wrong,” Arya spat, “you haven’t looked into more surgeries.”

“Ms. Stark, we’ve extended his timeline for recovery far past the twelve-month window because this is a high profile case, and we were leaving no stone unturned in his treatment, but we’ve tried our best.”

“Then try harder – ” her nails were digging into the vinyl armrests on either side.

“Arya please,” Bran cut across her. There were no tears in his eyes, but a simple, placid peacefulness that had washed over him. He placed a hand on her arm, and she felt her breathing calm, “Thank you Doctor Luwin for your work. I’ve assumed that this would be the outcome for some time.”

Her breathing softened but a heavy ringing began in her ears. She picked up bits and pieces of the conversation that the doctor had begun – making the manor more permanently accessible. Adding ramps, stair chairs, ways that Bran can adapt – but there was a nagging feeling gnawing at the back of her head.

_It should have been me._

Bran should be out there running, and climbing trees, riding horses. Spending time with friends, and going away for school. He always had so many friends. The people of the manor loved him in a way they never loved her. She even remembered how fond he had become of Howland Reed’s daughter the summers Meera and Jojen spent at Winterfell. He should be living his life, because at least he would be living his life to the fullest.

She resurfaced only when doctor Luwin offered her his hand to shake at the end of the meeting, not sure most of it had sunk in. She stepped forward to push at Bran’s chair, but he spun his wheels ahead of her. She jogged to catch pace with him.

“How can you just take that laying down?” she asked bitterly. Bran smiled. It was a genuine smile, not one of those creepy, ethereal smirks he had offered her, but a real, beaming smile.

“Well I can't really take this standing up," he said. A joke. Really. Right now. Bran saw that it failed to rate on his sister and continued on, voice clinical, "I forget sometimes that you only see me on the holidays, but I live this everyday. It’s a challenge, but I adapt. I overcome it,” he paused for a moment, getting lost in himself again, “I’ve accepted the way I am now – have you?”

She looked into his eyes, his gaze was uncomfortably intense.

“Come on you two, we have to pick up Bran’s suit we had to have it resized, he’s really filled out,” they broke eye contact Sansa caught up to them tucking pamphlets into the bag dangling off her left arm. When she got like this she was a perfect image of their mother.

“It’s the swimming,” Bran replied, “and the chair.”

She wasn’t wrong. He had changed significantly over the past two years, growing taller, and modestly broader than either of them could have expected. He wasn’t as broad-shouldered as someone like Gendry, but –

It was the first time she’d thought of him since she’d left the theatre, and her stomach curdled painfully. She already had four brothers – five if you count Theon, and she did – she didn’t need _another brother_. What she needed was –

Her phone buzzed loudly from her pocket.

She checked her phone. A text from Dayne.

_D: any word on those tie colours._

_A: Grey._

Dayne responded almost instantaneously.

_D: I don’t have any grey – what about purple?_

“I really don’t feel like going tonight Sansa,” Arya said, eyes straying to the faces in the hospital rooms. Regardless of the outcome, a visit to the hospital would usually make her want to stay in bed for the next couple days.

“I don’t either,” she confided shortly, as they wound their way back toward the entrance, where Sandor was waiting, reading a newspaper by the entrance, “but you know what they say about the lone wolf.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what they say about the lone wolf,” she said sparing Sansa a smile as they all piled back into the van. Her phone buzzed again.

_D: Arya? Purple?_

_A: Purple is perfect._

_It wasn’t perfect, but what other option did she have?_

* * *

Gendry spent the rest of his afternoon plodding around the lobby preparing it for the firestorm that awaited him that evening, his only reprieve was a quick coffee break he spent with Bella, but even that turned into him asking her for a hand with the step and repeat. He hated the entire idea of the thing, but it seemed like the entire city was enchanted by it.

“I thought you had an assistant for this?” she whined as she shouldered the awkwardly shaped cut out, “or is she busy getting ready for the gala.”

“She should be _here_ getting ready for the gala,” he snarled, finally letting down the screen. He rubbed the sweat from his hands off his palms.

“Easy there,” Bella murmured. The Lobby had been closed down until showtime, but he still felt strange about speaking so loudly at the front of the house, “if I didn’t know better I’d think you’re mad about it.”

“I’m not mad about it,” he snapped, breathing deeply. He eyed Bella, weighing his options. She was a gossip, but she did give good advice, “How do you know if someone likes you?”

She snorted, re-arranging the stanchions “It’s actually unfair you get to be called an adult.”

“Can you be serious for a second,” he said, grabbing the far end of the stanchions, and began to do the same.

“Someone _likes_ you when you fuck and they don’t kick you out after,” she said drily, huffing loudly as she worked to telegraph her displeasure with the extra labour.

_Gods I miss how quiet Arya is when she works. Just head down, tuned in, not like **this**._

“Is this about – ” Bella interrupted, but he shushed her loudly, “Oh come on, it’s not like anyone is around.”

He looked around, she was right, but the likelihood that Davos was stalking around somewhere around here was too high to chance it, “That’s beside the point – you have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise,” she breathed eagerly looking over him with great interest, “something happened between you two didn’t it?”

“We slept together,” he breathed. She dropped the stanchion she was lugging and it toppled with an undignified clatter, threatening to take the others with it. He swooped down to grab the precariously swaying stanchion, immediately regretting his phrasing, but _Gods,_ did it felt good to say it out loud. Bella, however, bit into her knuckle, barely containing her glee.

“Ok let me rephrase that.”

She didn’t let him rephrase that.

“Does her brother have a spare wheelchair because that girl might never walk again,” she squealed. He rolled his eyes hard, “I mean I can always tell. _The giggling, the glances, the coffees. I knew it._ ”

“One, that’s not funny. And two. We didn’t quite sleep together. We shared a bed,” he corrected, bristling at her delight. He had been so careful not to telegraph his feelings, to keep them collected and controlled, but to hear that wasn’t case seemed to annoy him.

“Why would you do that to me. Why would you snatch that win from me,” she groaned, a bit too loud, and his fingers flew to his mouth again to quiet her.

“Because something _did_ happen. Just not _that._ ”

“ _Stop holding out on me Waters,”_ she warned, now impatient. He looked around, even though the lobby seemed deserted, he didn’t trust it. He grabbed her by the wrist, and dragged her into the ticket wicket, and opened the door at the rear of the booth that opened into a small office. He groped in the dark for a moment before clicking on the lights, only to reveal colour rising in his face, as he debated whether or not this was a good idea. The words, however, didn’t wait until that debate was settled, “I woke up and she was asleep, but grinding against…you know… _me_.”

“On your cock,” she said nonchalantly, as if he woke up every other morning with a beautiful woman winding her ass into him, “I mean…I wouldn’t take things people do in their sleep very seriously.”

“That’s what I thought, but then she said ‘more’” he said salaciously. Just the thought of it was making his balls ache again, and he realized he’d likely have to go deal with himself (hopefully) just once more before showtime.

“So?” she responded. Clearly, she didn’t understand what he was saying.

He leaned in and whispered, “she said _‘more Gendry. I want it’_.”

 _Ok, maybe twice more_ , _but then that’s it._

She leaned back, eyes going wide, a smirk accompanying the understanding spreading over her face, “Usually, I’d say you’re reading too much into this, but _damn._ So what happened afterwards?”

“Well I bought her breakfast then caught her making out with Ned Dayne,” he said sheepishly. He couldn’t believe he actually told Bella this, but she was good at thinking through this kind of stuff in ways his guy friends weren’t. She stroked her forehead for a moment and sighed heavily.

“And let me guess, you flew off the handle?”

“Yep,” he replied quickly.

“And acted like a complete asshole?”

“Mhm,” he settled down onto an overturned bucket at the back of the closet.

“And pushed her away?”

He buried his face in his hands offering a muffled, “yes.”

“You are astonishingly bad at this, do you know that?” she asked with sympathetic smile.

“Oh _and_ I managed to tell her at some point that I didn’t like her boyfriend because _she’s like a sister to me,_ ” he finished dragging his hands away from his face.

“Ah, the _classic faux pas_ of telling the girl who wants to fuck you that you only like her as a sister,” she laughed, “you had a really long night didn’t ya, big fella?” she patted his back lightly, voice patronizing.

“So what do I do?” he asked suddenly feeling a leaden dread in the bit of his stomach, “She has a boyfriend who is Dornish nobility, and everyone loves them. And I’m a no one who can barely make rent. And even when things are good I keep fucking it up.”

Bella shrugged, “I’m afraid you just have a bad brain. Get a new brain? Or maybe do a _sudoku?”_

“That’s not helpful,” he glared at her, and she buckled under his furious glare.

She heaved a great sigh and looked him full in the face, “you’re a good guy. You just have to stop getting in your own head about this whole thing. If it comes up be honest about how you feel,” she stepped back out into the lobby, beckoning him to follow along, “What’s the worst that can happen.”

“She shoots me down and my life is ruined,” he grumbled stepping back out into the lobby. His voice felt hoarse and his head suddenly felt cloudy, as if he’d finally hit a wall of his exhaustion.

“And if she says yes?” she asked, face uncharacteristically hopeful.

“I get to be with her in secret and watch her kiss that wiener Ned Dayne, and my life is ruined.”

The words tumbled from his mouth and he knew they were true. He felt his heart grow heavy with the impossibility of her love.

“Well, either way, your life is ruined,” she smiled reassuringly, as a photographer walked into the lobby looking mildly lost, “Now hold onto something because here they come.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always for all the feedback and love you guys have left along the way. The people have spoken. They want the slowburn, and the slowburn they shall have. This and the next one was supposed to be one chapter but ended up becoming two for obvious length related reasons. I've got a busy weekend ahead of me, just like last weekend, so forgive my absence.


	10. Other Rich Girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm Back! I apologize for the long wait - my weekend with friends turned into an impromptu camping trip - which was nice, but lead to me doing a lot of late night writing on my phone. Hope y'all can forgive me.
> 
> Gave a lot of thought of whether or not I should speed things up or stick to my initial plan, but I made an executive decision to keep it low and slow.
> 
> Why? [Because that's what it's all about.](https://twitter.com/kitshercndale/status/1163571919649722374)

You never really get used to being photographed like this – Arya thought, bracing against the bright flash of cameras stepping out of the car behind Sansa. Her sister had of course leaned into the exposure that she received as the de-facto leader of the North, and Bran, well, nothing seemed to really perturb Bran anymore. Dayne sauntered up to her, waving brightly, wearing a garish blue suit and a plum tie that was much worse than his description.

“You look lovely,” he said quickly, grabbing her by the arm and squirming his way into her hand. It wasn’t a lie, _per se,_ she had dazedly put together an outfit, but she still felt completely exhausted, emotionally and physically from the night before. She nearly collapsed into her bed after returning from Bran’s appointment, falling into graciously dreamless sleep. Sansa shook her awake nearly three hours later, sitting on the edge of her bed, already dressed in an emerald green gown, holding two dress options – one a stormy blue grey and the other steely. She chose the deeper – almost black of the two – explaining to Sansa that she had worn that to Robb’s private heart tree ceremony and the other one the vultures from that rag would absolutely recognize.

She and Dayne hesitated by the entrance as Sansa pushed ahead of them. She strode into the fray at the entrance of the building with such great poise that Arya couldn’t help but be in awe of her sister. Dayne leaned down, “Are you alright – you look a little…”

She did look a _little…well a little whatever_. She felt her stomach sour watching her sister be barraged by the rapid-fire questions that were certainly awaiting her, and it felt suddenly she felt as if the weight of the exhaustion she’d felt the past two days had cemented her in place.

“We got some bad news,” she muttered looking suddenly up at Dayne, watching smiling curiosity build on his face, “they said Bran isn’t going to walk again.”

She studied his face carefully, hoping to find some kind of solace in it – trying to find that connection that she had been ignoring for some time. Dayne sighed with a smile, “That sounds like a tomorrow problem to me,” his hand twisting uncomfortably in hers, “Let’s not let it ruin our night,” he said simply and brought her hand to his lips. “The movie’s supposed to be interesting – a war epic about the rebellion - ” he drifted off explaining a review he had read of the film, but she had stopped listening. _This_ _wasn’t a tomorrow problem._ _This wasn’t something that could be laughed off_. She didn’t feel like standing across the room from Dayne, let alone next to him in photos –

“Dayne I don’t know if I can – ”

But he had pulled her by the arm and suddenly they were in the fray. The flashes of several cameras hit her, and the world suddenly felt like it was in slow motion. Then came the rapid-fire wall of questions that began to rain down on them, as a ringing built in her ears.

 _“Edric do you like –_ ”

She looked to Dayne who was chatting happily, as if he had been waiting for this the entire time.

_“- Lord Dayne what have you been doing with your time off – “_

She had to remember to breathe, and smile, smile convincingly. She felt herself leave her body - as if her consciousness was floating over them, watching, completely detached from this person she was supposed to be.

“- What’s your favourite – ”

 _Come back down now, you’ve got this,_ a voice in her head coaxed her and the ringing began to subside.

“Lord Dayne where do you see this relationship going?” another reporter asked, and she grimaced internally.

Dayne looked to her with an adoring smile, she looked back up at him, feeling disconcertingly like she did when they performed on stage, “Well I can’t say right now, but we’re stronger than ever,” he drifted off coyly as the reporters leaned in, eating right out of his hand. Over his shoulder she could see Sansa and Bran had found an impasse at a small set of stairs dividing the lobby from the entrance of the theatre. Sansa approached a staff member for assistance with Bran, and to her surprise, Gendry stepped forward, looking decidedly anywhere but towards her. Sansa touched his arm gently, and he followed her lead to Bran’s side. She couldn’t hear what he was saying to Bran, but he was wearing the same kind of wide, puppy-dog smile that made her heart swell. She dragged her eyes back to Dayne, who was chatting happily still about the possibilities of their relationship with the reporters, “ – I can’t give you specifics, but we are planning a trip to Dorne after _Hamlet_ closes.”

Her attention laser focused into Dayne as the words hit her like a sack of bricks. Of course they never discussed this – or had they, Dayne seemed to have an encyclopedic memory for things that she had agreed to do, so maybe, just maybe, she had agreed to go down to Dorne with him, but she sure as hell didn’t _want to._

“I know she loves it up here, but once she comes south, I doubt she’ll ever want to come back,” he said with a monstrously self-satisfied grin. The reporters awaited her response, but all she could do was laugh uncertainly – words could barely form on her lips, but Dayne was steps ahead of her, as he leaned down mashing her lips onto his. She closed her eyes and imagined the lips she were kissing were Gendry’s, how gentle but demanding they could be, but this wasn’t how Gendry wanted to be with her anyway – he loved her like a sister, and the way Dayne was treating her was far from sisterly, as he drew her in. She broke away, blinking, and caught Gendry’s eye from across the lobby. This time he didn’t seem angry. He just smiled weakly and went back to chatting brightly with Bran. Somehow, this felt even worse than him storming away. At least storming away meant he felt something. Quiet acceptance filled her with dread.

“Is it true that Lady Stark has been working community service at the theatre,” A voice asked in the distance. She blinked twice. _A question? For me?_

“Yes. Yes, I’ve been helping with the theatre staff in preparation for this festival,” she replied, steeling her words, trying to sound stately and confident.

“And how would you characterize your relationship with the staff?” a man with a sharp face, greying at the temples asked. Arya felt the question strangely pointed in a way that made her genuinely uneasy.

She smiled as brightly as she could muster and simply said, “Friendly. They’re good people,” with a sense of finality. She squeezed Dayne by the hand and yanked him forward, allowing the next group behind her to be photographed. She slipped her hand from Dayne’s and made for Sansa’s side.

The lobby was quickly emptying into the theatre, but Bran still sat in conversation with Gendry, who seemed rapt in a good-natured conversation. She was surprised, few people seemed to gravitate towards the energy that Bran seemed to exude these days, the last person she’d expect to do exactly that was _him._

“Thank you for the help Mister Waters,” Sansa said curtly, and Gendry jumped to attention spinning the face the three.

“It’s nothing. You look lovely tonight Lady Stark,” he said to Sansa, in a very grown-up voice, “Ladies Stark,” he corrected nodded politely to both of them.

“Don’t call me lady,” Arya deflected annoyed by the detachment of his voice, stepping behind Bran to wheel him in.

“My apologies,” Gendry clasped his hands behind his back, smiling graciously. As she passed him he leaned in and whispered, “Easy mistake to make when you’re dressed like that.” 

She couldn't help but feel the colour rise up in her cheeks.

When she met Sansa met her glance at the door, taking the handles of Bran’s chair from her, “What did he say?”

“Apologized,” she said curtly. Sansa’s eyes watched Gendry move shrewdly back up to the projection booth, and she felt her stomach gurgle uncomfortably. _If the two of them are going to, I just wish they would already._

“He’s something else, isn’t he?” Sansa appraised with a wry grin. They wound their way down to their seats in the front row – a symbolic gesture but not all together a practical one – Arya knew from the many times she had sat there that they were arguably the worst seats in the house. Dayne was awaiting her, and to her surprise, she saw Sandor stand abruptly as Sansa found her seat next to him. Arya settled into her own seat, and leaned in to whisper to her sister, “What’s Clegane doing here? He _hates_ these things,” she hissed to her sister as the announcer went up to the stage to begin her introduction.

“He’s a veteran of the war in this movie, I thought it’d be a fitting gesture for him to attend with us,” Arya leaned forward to watch him twist his programme uncharacteristically in his thick hands. He looked completely out of place – he usually spent these kinds of events smoking a cigarette by the town car, or standing sourly by the entrance, scanning the audience for trouble, but instead he was sitting nervously in what was rented tuxedo.

“Without further ado – ” the speaker said. She knew the cue. The lights should go down. The film should start. But they didn’t. She waited a beat, before she felt the same bolt of panic hit her as she did reading the article. She looked above her to see Gendry standing stock still at the edge of the catwalk, frozen, knuckles white against the edge of the catwalk.

_The bastard went out too far, and now he’s scared to run back._

“Dayne, I’m going to step out for some fresh air.”

“But the movie’s just starting, and the afterparty…” Dayne whimpered. She knew after the film there was an afterparty, that was mostly a cocktail mixer with members of their minor houses, upper crust of local society, and a variety of other people she wasn’t particularly interested in rubbing elbows with. It was much more Sansa’s set.

“I don’t feel well,” she lied, swivelling her head around, looking over the audience. Davos and Marya sat several rows behind them looking perplexed, and in Davos’s case, a bit sweaty. Scanning the crowd she noted photographers weren’t allowed in the actual screening, so luckily there’d be no headline reading _Stark and Raving: Arya runs out on her date_ printed in the Saturday edition of _The Northstar._

She finally saw her opening – a small alcove opening into the wings, and she ducked back into it, scuttling as quickly as she could in her heels.

_If he’s not going to do his job, by the old gods, I will._

* * *

“Without further ado,” a voice said from stage, and he stood rooted in place for a moment. The speaker cleared their throat again waving to the control room, “Without further ado…” He looked back sharply toward the control booth, noticing just how far he had waded out into the catwalk – almost the entire length of the theatre. He leaned into a sprint, cringing at the echoing boom of his footfalls – eyes focused on the darkened windows ahead of him when the lights fell down, and the projector flickered to life. He stopped dead in his tracks, stymied, but in the dark he could see Arya’s face reflected in the small pool of light from the computer. She stared intently down, removing her dangling earrings absentmindedly.

He opened the door to the control room with a gasp of cool air.

“What are you doing here?” he folded his arms and leaned against the far wall, putting as much distance between them as possible.

“I’m working, what are you doing?” she didn’t look up, her distant eyes trained on the screen. She was still dressed in her gala dress, but hair disheveled slightly.

“In that? You look ridiculous,” he lied. His eyes drank in her pronounced swell of her curves in the tight dress – the light shimmering off it in the dark, shabby room made her look even more otherworldly than she usually had, and yet, he wanted nothing more than to rip it off her.

“I can do whatever you do in a gown and heels,” she said coldly, before slipping again out the door. Gendry looked quickly from the film on screen and followed her out the door.

“So you’re leaving again,” he followed her down the hallway, keeping a distance behind her, but following stubbornly.

“I’m not leaving again,” she said as she backed into the doorway of a changing room, squaring off against him, eyes fierce. He noticed her lipstick was smeared slightly across her cheek and felt the overwhelming urge to wipe it off her face, he reached out gently, before she slammed the door in his face, “I’m getting changed.”

“I’m not an idiot for thinking the person who abandoned me during set up tonight was going to abandon me again,” he shot back icily.

“I didn’t abandon you – if you don’t recall, I was the person in the projection booth doing _your_ job,” she retorted through the dressing room door.

“ _My job_ – last night you said that this was your responsibility too!”

She flew out of the dressing room wearing a pair of shorts and the same baggy grey t-shirt she seemed to favor. It was strange, but he liked her much better when she was like this, she felt so much more like herself than when she was dressed up. It also didn’t help that he had a much better view of her long, graceful legs.

“So I showed up to do _my job_ and I did it damn well,” she tried to dodge past him, but he stepped into the hallway, palms touching each side of the wall.

“Why are you being like this?” he grumbled.

“Why am I being like this?” she laughed, ducking under his arm, “why are _you_ being like this? If I recall you chewed me out this afternoon for leaving early.”

Gendry spun on the spot and followed her into the stairwell, “I’m being this way because…” he sighed heavily, “I’m scared you’d leave,” She stopped halfway down the staircase into the lobby, giving him time to catch up to her, “You’ve done it before. Don’t make me feel like I’m being unreasonable to think you’d do it again.”

The two met on the plateau between staircases and she considered him silently.

Her hands went to his chest, fastidiously unbuttoning his shirt, one at a time. When it was completely unbuttoned, she smoothed the edges of his shirt, eyes roving over the stripe of bare chest predatorily, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The air thrummed with anticipation. He wanted her to run her hands over his abs. To lavish him with kisses. To lick the stripe of flesh from nipple to chin. But instead of pushing his shirt off of his shoulders, she simply buttoned it again, “your shirt has been buttoned one hole off all day and it’s been driving me _fucking_ insane.”

She climbed back up to the plateau near the control room and without looking back she called, “If you’re not going to pay me, then you _at least_ owe me popcorn Waters.”

_This woman would be the end of him._

Thankfully, the lobby was empty as he walked up to the small concessions stand, a small, elderly Northern woman, fussing over a popcorn machine behind the counter.

“How’s concession sales going Nan?” he asked brightly, eyes still slightly glazed from his encounter in the hallway.

The old woman turned to see him, lips parting slightly in a matronly smile, “Oh you know these gala folks, they barely eat anything.”

“Then I’ll take some of these off your hands for you,” he grabbed at two bags of popcorn, “What is that $7.50?” But Nan’s eyes had gone wide, a colour rising up in her face, “Nan?”

“No need for any of that,” a voice came from behind him, and Ned Dayne, clapped him on the shoulder, “I’ll take care of those – ”

“You don’t have to do that,” he put his hand out to stop him, but Dayne had already slapped a twenty dollar bill down, “Just one popcorn then, nan.”

Nan scooped up the money, and began making change, before Ned put his hand on Nan's, flashing a dazzling smile, “Keep the change,” he turned to Gendry, “Walk with me for a moment?”

“I really have to be getting back to work,” he replied coldly, but Dayne had clasped him tight on the shoulder and Nan’s eyes bored into him. He reluctantly obliged, scooping the popcorn up off the counter. As they made their way out of the Lobby, Dayne opened his lapel to reveal a silver flask, and Gendry said the familiar refrain, “no outside food and drink in the theatre.”

“That’s why we’re going _outside_ ,” he slipped the flask from his pocket, embroidered with a designer name that Gendry couldn’t read in the cursive. They pushed through the glass doors, and Dayne took a deep draught, “want some?”

“I’m on the clock still,” he rebuffed, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn’t know _why_ Arya’s boyfriend would want to spend time with him, but whatever he intended it couldn’t be good.

“Suit yourself. I had to get out of there for a minute, all that Northern propaganda,” he shook his head, grimacing at the strength of the drink. Of course it was propaganda to Ned. His family had been on the other side of the war. Dayne looked out over the cityscape, taking another draught, frowning, “Arya really likes it up here. Haven’t the foggiest _why_ ,” he scanned over the buildings in the distance, “Maybe it’s just a Northerner thing.”

“I’m Southron and I like it here. It’s…home,” Gendry said defensively. He wasn’t sure why he was being dragged out to listen to Edric Dayne wax poetic, but he sure as hell wasn’t appreciating it.

“That, and the cheap real-estate,” he laughed, “this suit must have cost more than a month’s rent in those apartments. How much do one of these go for?” he pointed to a midsized building in the distance. Gendry didn’t know, and he suddenly very much didn’t want to talk about money with Dayne.

“I live in midtown,” Gendry said staunchly. He did – he had a small apartment, but these days it felt more like he _actually_ did live in the theatre rather than at his home.

“This suit is probably worth two months of those,” he said distantly. And suddenly Gendry clued into exactly why he had been dragged out here – to be embarrassed. stopped him once more, “Regardless, once she sees Dorne, I’d doubt she’d ever want to come back up here.”

“You two are visiting Dorne?” He turned heel, his head spun for a moment - _he’d never imagined that the two of them were serious enough to take a vacation down south, but then again, Dayne had elected to come North, so -_

“Well that’s the plan,” Ned interrupted his frantic train of thought, shaking the flask in his face, “You sure you don’t want any? Last offer.”

Gendry sure as hell didn’t want anything Ned Dayne had to offer, unless he was offering to put his head up his own Dornish arse.

“I’m good thanks,” he said, disgust just beneath the surface of his voice.

“No worries man I’m just being friendly, Arya doesn’t have many _friends,_ ” he began putting ugly emphasis on the word friends, “Her friends are my friends. And the Dornish are good to their friends.”

“And what about your enemies?” Gendry looked back, his grip tightening dangerously around the bag of popcorn.

Dayne held his gaze unsmilingly, before bursting out in a hammy laugh, “You’re funny. I can see why she likes you.”

He opened the glass door, with his free hand, but hesitated one last time, a thought dawning on him, “Do you know where Arya is now?”

He shook his head, eyes beginning to glaze a little from the drink, “Went home, said she wasn’t feeling well.”

Gendry wrinkled his nose, trying to wrangle the deep satisfaction that had welled in his chest. “Ah too bad. Tell her to get well soon,” he pressed his lips together into a somber line and made his way back upstairs. It took him a moment to find his bearings – Arya was nowhere to be found, not in the dressing rooms or hallways, or the projection booth. It was only until he peered through the picture window that he spotted her out on the catwalk, legs dangling down over the crowd below.

“Where’d you go for that popcorn, King’s Landing?” she whispered sharply.

Gendry grabbed the bar very tightly looking uneasily down at the audience so far below, as he settled into a seated position, “Might as well have been, Nan went on break.”

He didn’t like the idea of lying to her about his discussion with Ned, but then again – she had been lying to Ned about leaving the screening – so they were _even._

“You actually thought you could be rid of me that easily,” she scoffed vaguely, eyes glued to the film screen. He reached for a handful of popcorn, and their hands touched for a moment, before withdrawing them quickly. The motion toppled the bag, sending a few kernels floating down into the audience. A disgruntled patron looked up, brushing popcorn from their shoulders, as they panicked the right the bag, stifling giggles all the while.

“I’ll hold the popcorn,” she said, “you need one hand on the catwalk at all times.”

“That’s a good idea,” he remarked, still grinning. They fell into a comfortable silence. It was too late for them to have the full picture on the plot, but from what Gendry could surmise it was an epic drama about the rebellion.

“My father fought in the war,” he whispered absentmindedly as he grasped a handful of popcorn from her lap, “fought alongside the north.”

“Maybe my father knew him?” Arya whispered back, still staring forward. He shook his head shrugging.

“I wouldn’t know. Mum said he passed shortly after I was born, and then mum…” he drifted off, a sniffle covered by the sound of an explosion, “Some days I can barely remember my mum’s face. She was blonde and she would sing to me, and that’s all I have.”

He didn’t realize that she had been looking at him for some time, eyes shining in the bright reflection of the screen. It was surprisingly unnerving, but somehow her looking away felt much worse.

She nodded quietly, refusing to look at him. They sat in silence for a long time, he felt unsure of what he could say to laugh it off, so he simply didn’t say anything at all.

“Doctors told us that Bran is never going to walk again,” she said suddenly.

His head swam for a moment, thinking to the gracious thanks the  gave him as he helped carry him into the theatre, and with his intense eye contact he maintained with him – but most of all the connection the two siblings had, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“We always held out hope. I just always felt guilty that I got a second chance, and he didn’t,” she said, her voice wavering felt like too much for Gendry, “It should have been me.”

This time all the bitterness and anger and confusion had drained out of him. _Fuck Dorne, and Fuck Dayne, and fuck the rules._

This time he didn’t hesitate to pull her close to him, wrapping an arm protectively around her shoulder. This time her arm wrapped around his midsection, burrowing her face into the crook of his chest – just where she’d been nestled a night before. Her other hand clawed fiercely at his chest. Her head tucked perfectly under his chin, as he stroked her hair gently.

“Bran is strong, and he’s resilient. He’s figured out how to manage this far, and he’s gonna live a life just as full as yours,” he said barely above a whisper, He could feel her nod into his chest, “probably fuller, because you’re kind of boring,” she laughed gently into his shirt, and before he could stop himself he placed a gentle kiss on the crown of her head. A small sigh parted her lips in a way that made him feel like he was going to melt down into the audience.

“I can’t just sit here though,” she murmured.

“What can we do.”

“I don’t know,” she said distantly.

He broke apart from her, looking her hard in her eyes.

“No,” he said again, seeing the understanding dawn on her, “what can we _do_? Because _I_ have an idea, but I’d have to come by yours on my day off.”

* * *

Arya awoke after the soundest sleep she’d had in a very long while. Unfortunately, it had not been as dream free as her nap earlier that afternoon. The very idea that Gendry Waters would be in her house – not just the hillock near Sandor’s cottage, but in her _home_ – had seemingly sent her subconscious into overdrive imagining the various places and _positions_ they might find themselves in. _He’s just coming here to help_. How he was going to help – he wasn’t clear, but apparently her subconscious wanted very badly for him to be shirtless and swinging a hammer. She rolled over to see it was already ten past noon, and her phone screen was cluttered with notifications.

_G: You still asleep?_

_G: You’re a sleepy little pup? If no one answers the door, I’m leaving._

_G: What am I saying? Of course someone will answer the door. You have servants for that._

_G: Be there at 1 – you better be up._

She’d slept through every alarm she’d set herself, but it felt well deserved after the past couple days she’d had, the phone cradled in her hand buzzed again.

_G: If you’re not I’m climbing in bed with you._

_Fucking hell_ , she thought, flopping onto her back, her imagination flying once again into overdrive, feeling her nipples harden and her sex begin to throb, with the image of him slinking beneath her covers and grabbing her hard by the waist. _I guess I’m staying in bed then._

 _G: That was a joke, by the way._ _Up and at 'em, Stark._

She took a while to get dressed, feeling suddenly self-conscious about what felt utilitarian, but alluring, salt of the earth, but still _nice_. Something that says _I didn’t think too hard about this, but I thought about it enough._ She ended up settling on a slinky tank top and a pair of tight jeans a size too small that clung to her, accentuating her curves quite nicely. Her makeup had seeming stayed on quite well from the night previous. She knew she’d be cursing what it did to her skin, but today, her smoky eye, or in this case – secondhand smoky eye looked just fine.

 _If he sees you like a sister, he’s about to go full Lannister_ , she thought to herself admiring the effect in the mirror.

She trudged down to the dining room to find Sansa sitting there – sipping a tea as usual, but still in her house coat. Under closer inspection her face had a sunken, deflated look to it, heavy bags under her eyes. Arya smiled wickedly. _Her sister was_ … _hungover._

“Rough night?” Sansa jolted at her voice, tea dribbling down her chin as she replaced the cup in its saucer, hands shaking as she dabbed a napkin to her lips. _Her sister was very hungover._

“Where did you get to last night?” she grumbled.

Arya took a seat opposite to her, “wasn’t feeling well, took a taxi home – I told Dayne.”

“Well you need to tell me when you leave events - Why are you dressed so…” she hesitated for a moment from behind the paper she was reading. Though Arya tended to wear sweatpants around the house on the weekend, she could barely accuse her of being dressed too extravagantly for a Saturday afternoon, “expecting company?” she changed the subject.

“Gendry’s coming round, said he had an idea to help make the house more accessible,” she began brightly, picking an orange out of a fruit bowl.

“He’s not going to be…building anything… _is he?_ ” she pleaded, rubbing her temple.

Arya smiled even more smugly, “Couldn’t tell you, he wasn’t very specific.”

Sansa put her teacup down with a clatter, “I’m going to go get changed.”

“Do you know where Sandor is?” Arya asked, finishing up the orange, and tossing the peel in the garbage.

Sansa stood in place for a moment, looking sicker than ever, “Not the faintest. Why?”

“Just would be helpful to have an extra set of hands is all,” she shrugged, leaving for the entrance.

She waited there for a bit, nervously waffling over whether it made more sense to be waiting at the door or approaching nonchalantly from the staircase. _Stop overthinking this,_ she thought, _this is not a debutante ball –_ but her feet had already carried her halfway up the staircase, when the doorbell rang out. She spun on her heel to get the door – deciding it was best not to let house staff open the door lest he call her a _rich girl_ forever, but the doorman had been too quick.

“My apologies lady Stark,” said the doorman, backing away quickly as she skidded almost crashing into him, before composing herself the best she could. Gendry stood at the entrance in a tucked in buttoned up shirt, toolbelt at his hip, and notebook tucked underneath his arm.

“You look like a cross between a math teacher and a plumber,” she couldn’t help the words leaping out of her mouth. He stared at her for a moment, his mouth open.

_Well he did._

“I’m guessing all the other rich girls race to the door for the math-plumber at their manors?” he asked, lips curling into the same frustrating smile that made her knees weak.

“You don’t know any other rich girls,” she said wryly. His eyes strayed from hers, and her head spun to see Sansa at the top of the staircase, looking surprisingly composed for someone so blisteringly hungover.

“I know at least one,” he said with a grin, “Now are you going to show me around, or am I just going to guess where I’m putting these ramps?” he unclipped a measuring tape from his belt and snapped it playfully. Sansa cringed a bit, and she grabbed him by the elbow, steering him around the first floor.

Though she hadn’t thought so clearly about it, but it made sense why Bran kept mostly to the third floor – the first floor had been designed with many little dips and steps, of which she crouched down to measure roughly, handing Gendry off the measurements as they went. He would grunt softly jotting them down into his notebook in his rough scrawl. On occasion she caught his eyes lingering on the curve of her thighs as she’d bent over, and stifling a laugh, she felt her choice of clothing had been a resounding success.

“What?” he said lifting his pen off the notebook.

“Nothing – let’s have a look upstairs, second floor is mostly dad’s office and guest quarters, but there’s a small drawing room that Bran can’t quite get to,”

Walking up to the second flight, they found themselves in front of the family portrait, and Gendry hesitated as she blew past it, hoping not have to discuss her late parents.

“You look like your dad – ” he said, hanging back by the portrait studying the faces of the painting.

“There’s definitely no good way to say that to a girl, but you’re right,” she conceded, shuffling back to his side.

“I mean I don’t mean that in a bad way – you’re just…Stark through and through,” he said with a sad smile.

“You probably look like your mom,” she barbed back, and he snorted.

“Yes she had the most exquisite five o’clock shadow,” he rubbed his hand across the dark sprouts at his jaw, “I remember them showing this painting on tv – for the funeral. Everyone was crying in the bar I was in. Everyone was crying on tv,” he remarked, “except for you. You’re a tough one,” his eyes lingered on her, but she looked quickly away, uncomfortable with the softness in his eyes, “There’s something off about Bran in this painting -”

“That’s what I always said,” she remarked, glad for the change of subject, but she felt her heart wrenched open for a moment, looking at his earnest emotion.

“He’s an interesting guy, your brother. Very… _tuned in._ He kept saying he knew me from somewhere – weird huh?” he remarked, snagging the measurements for the drawing room.

They tackled the next flight of stairs, ending at her own bedroom. Gendry hesitated at the doorway, poking his head inside.

“Go ahead,” she said, suddenly feeling nervous as he walked into her room.

“So this is your bedroom,” he said curiously, eyes scanning over her trophies and photos, before landing expectantly on her bed, “and that’s where you sleep. And text me. But _mostly_ sleep.”

“Among other things,” she said lightly, his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his lips in a way that she was certain he had gleaned the suggestion in her voice.

He leapt back into her bed, sprawling out for a moment, hands tucked behind his head, “Comfier than mine.”

“Anything is comfier than that futon,” she said sinking down to sit next to him on the edge of the bed,”

“I’ve told you, I have a real apartment,” he sat up and poked her playfully in the stomach, “and a real bed.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” her eyebrows raised suggestively. She sat up onto her elbows, "balls in your court Waters..."

The effect of the proposition was immediate. He sat bolt upright, swallowing heavily. He blinked a couple times. It was quite entertaining watching a veritable master of innuendo turn into a shy school girl sitting on the edge of her bed. She bit her lip and nodded at him.

“We should probably keep going – where to next?" he asked clicking his pen with a sense of finality.

“There’s the basement,” she drifted off, feeling suddenly dejected.

“What could be down there that Bran would want to see,” he asked, getting to his feet and snapping shut his notebook, “Dusty old wine casks? Storage?”

Arya lead him down a flight into the basement, where she disembarked down a short flight of stairs into the pool room. His eyes widened at the underlit cerulean pool recessed into the tiles, and his pen fell out of his hands. She reached down to grab it and measured the stairs, “thirty six centimeters,” she handed him the pen, and it hung in his fingers for a moment.

“You have a pool _in your basement_?” he groaned, clipping the pen into his shirt pocket.

“Well my mom was from the Riverlands and she missed swimming so dearly and…well she was supposed to marry my uncle but then he was killed in the war. Marrying my father, she was so sad, and lonely…” she trailed off – the explanation always sounded so much better in her head.

“Is that common?” Gendry asked, and she was taken aback for a moment. The question hung in the air between the for a moment as she tried to parse what he meant.

“Building indoor pools?” she asked thickly, “not really.”

“Being forced to marry someone you don’t love?” he asked, this time his voice sharp.

The question seemed uneasily pointed as they strolled the perimeter of the pool. _Was it?_ _I mean things have changed a lot between her mother’s generation and hers, but -_

“I don’t know…” she drifted off uncomfortably until the gentle lapping of water against the pool walls. Gendry looked between her and the cerulean surface of the pool. He caught her uneasy glance, and the corners of his mouth quirked upward suddenly.

“What about skinny dipping, is that common?”

She wanted desperately to roll her eyes, but instead, she began to pull up the hem of her shirt, and his eyebrows skyrocketed, “really?” He tossed down his notebook, and tore off his dress shirt, struggling now to get his undershirt untucked from his belt.

“No,” she said pushing hard into his chest, hander than she expected. His arms flailed madly as he soared backwards into the water with a thunderous splash. She watched him sink under the surface, bubbles floating upward where he had cleaved the water for longer than she anticipated. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, as she rubbed her palms into her thighs nervously. He broke the surface again, face-down, bubbles streaming from his mouth.

“Very funny Gendry,” she replied. The bubbles stopped streaming, and he floated there for a moment, “Gendry?”

Panic washed over her body, she flung her phone out of her pocket and plunged into the water. She blinked open her eyes underwater with some difficulty, grabbing his midsection and hoisting him above the water. She swam with him until he felt her toes skim the floor, and once she was standing firmly in the shallow end, she cradled his slack face, feeling the adrenaline course through her veins. She tapped his face frantically, “C’mon,” she muttered under her breath as the water lapped around his, still slack face, “c’mon, stay with me, stay with –“

But before she could finish her sentence his face split into a roguish grin, “ – you want me to stay with you, huh?”

She let her hands move from where they held his face, lacing into his hair “You can stay underwater,” she dunked his head back beneath the surface, lapping into a backstroke, swimming back out into the pool. He re-emerged, spluttering, flipping the wet hair out of his now determined eyes, before lowering himself to the surface of the water, predatory, as he waded toward her, “So you thought I couldn’t swim because I was raised in King’s Landing.”

“Of course not,” she splashed at him defensively, but he continued unimpeded.

“Poor little city boy can’t even float in a swimming pool,” he splashed back.

She felt her back hit the tiled walls of the swimming pool as he encroached on her personal space.

“You know the sea doesn’t cost anything,” he plucked a damp strand of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear, “I’m a very strong swimmer, among _other things_ ,” he said, his voice gravelly and low.

“Prove it,” she said, diving down under the water, feeling the water displaced behind him as he followed. As she reached the nadir of the pool, she twisted back to glimpse him following, and simply crossed her legs and sat, at the very bottom of the pool. He exhaled deeply, and he followed suit, stubbornly sitting across from her. Bubbles streaming through both of their noses until the sat completely still – challenging each other to see who would break first. She felt her lungs begin to ache with the need to breathe, but she wasn’t going to let him win that easily. Gendry’s eyes widened as panic set in and he kicked off toward the surface. She followed quickly after, gasping  wildly as she broke the surface.

“ _Are you trying to kill me!_ ” he gasped through a laugh, swooping his hair out of his face.

“Maybe you should rethink that before you try to play dead,” She scoffed still breathing heavily. She waited for him to fight, back but he simply cinched his hands around her waist, underneath her hiked up shirt, just beneath her ribcage. She shivered at the feeling of his hands on her skin, tracing downward as he reeled her in closer to him. She’d be certain _this_ was a dream if not for the fact that his hands stopped moving downward as his hand traced over the patch tangled scars. She felt panic thrill through her at the gesture, but he didn’t move his hand, only looking between her and her scars with a gentle curiosity.

“Don’t go to Dorne,” he said, barely above a whisper.

_Dorne had been the last thing on her mind. How did he even know about that..._

“I mean,” he began, his voice sarcastic again, “if you really want me to _stay with you,_ ” he moaned melodramatically, and she slapped a hand off his chest.

“Oh shut -”

“That better be an aquatic rescue I’m walking in on,” Sandor’s gravelly voice glowered from the edge of the pool, and Arya lapped quickly away from his embrace, swallowing heavily, “Sansa said you were looking for me.” It wasn’t a question

“Yes, of course, Gendry just tripped into the pool,” she said quickly, pulling herself up over the edge of the pool.

“I can’t swim,” he spluttered stupidly, quickly grasping the edge of the ladder and climbing out himself. Sandor tossed the two of them towels, which they used to dry off the best they could – and their work began in earnest.

It was far less awkward than she assumed it’d be – working with Gendry and Sandor, despite the fact that she and Gendry didn’t speak, and communicated only with a variety significant glances to reply to Sandor’s dispassionate grunts. Gendry had managed to show her how to hammer more accurately, frustratingly attempting to do so without touching her at all under the watchful glower of Clegane. The hours seemed to fly by, and they quickly exhausted their supplies and done everything they’d planned to do – and then some.

By the end of the evening Sansa had already attempted to ply Gendry with money several times, but he continued to rebuff it, until she pulled him aside into the coat room corridor, and the conversation became quite heated at some point. Arya and Sandor arrived about half-way through, listening not all together surreptitiously.

“I’m not having you work for free, this isn’t feudalism anymore,” she said, Arya spying Sansa’s hands going to his muscled forearms. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that his neat appearance came progressively undone during the day – his sleeves rolled up, his shirt untucked, his neatly combed hair, a disaster after the pool. Sandor scoffed sourly by the entrance, and Arya realized that the offer of extra money wasn’t quite extended to him as well.

But Gendry put his hands up and refused, “No, I’m serious. It’s part of her apprenticeship – if anything it’ll save us time as we start into set-building next week because I won’t have to teach her to swing a hammer.”

“You’ve certainly been a credit to our house,” Sansa remarked, as Arya spied her leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

Sandor stalked off moodily, mumbling something that sounded remarkably like, “credit my ass.”

“I know how to swing a hammer,” she interrupted suddenly, both of them looking only mildly flustered. Gendry composed himself, before turning to her.

“You’re making improvements,” he remarked in a condescending tone, mussing her hair in a brotherly fashion that made the pit of her stomach ache, “let’s see if you can keep improving Monday.”

Sansa bristled for a moment before stepping away after Sandor.

Gendry hesitated at the doorway, “jokes aside, you did really well today.”

“Thank you. This…you helping…it means a lot to me,” she said quietly, hoping her earnest kindness might be cause for another embrace. But something about him seemed sad and distant.

“I know,” he said stepping out of the house, his smile suddenly sad and distant, “see you Monday.”

“Sansa, that’s my friend. You can’t just be all over him it’s…”

“I actually wanted to talk to you about your friend – my office,”

“It’s not your office,” she grumbled, still angry with her sister for a reason she didn’t quite want to admit was Gendry related. Sansa wound around the desk and settled into the armchair.

“I know it’s dad’s office. But I’m using it, so hush –” Sansa said, tossing her the magazine across the desk, “have a look at the Weekend edition.”

Arya looked down at the cover of the magazine, to see hers and her sister’s smiling faces beaming back. But thumbing through her pages, she stopped as she found a story that made the breath in her throat hitch. A muddied shot of her face dimly lit by the instruments of Gendry’s dashboard smiling broadly. And in the foreground stood Gendry, in one hand flexing a bag of groceries, in the other a package of meat.

“ _Mystery Meat_ ,” Sansa said aloud, “It would almost be funny if you weren’t fucked.”

It wouldn’t be if it didn’t feel like a sledgehammer to her chest – the story felt intrusive in the way that others hadn’t. As if they had read her diary.

“Why would they wait so long to publish this?” she asked, a hot panic overwhelming her.

“Probably to drum up interest for their gala coverage – and to blindside Dayne. It’s wonderful drama for them to have a pull-quote of him saying ‘we’re stronger than ever before’ right next to a photo of you out and about with a mystery man. I mean…meat,” she said chuckling quietly to herself.

She flipped to the story quickly. To her slight reprieve, the body text wasn’t very long at all, complete with two more photos, thankfully from angles that cast Gendry as a large, well-muscled blob, and one large photo of Dayne kissing her at the gala.

“ _When the Dayne’s abed, the wolves will tread – in this Northstar exclusive, we’ve uncovered that Arya Stark is back in the driver’s seat and driving someone new. Despite Ned’s insistence that they’re stronger than ever, Looks to us like the future Lord of Starfall isn’t the only one falling for a Stark,”_ she felt her cheeks becoming very hot. The rest of the article was fairly thin, mostly bad puns and, as Sansa had speculated, heavily promoting their coverage of the Summer Series. She found however, her eyes drifting towards the dreamy, enthralled expression on her face. She had never seen herself look like that, it was engrossing in its own terrible right.

“So what do I do?” she looked at Sansa, eyes pleading.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Sansa said in a small voice, “I can only remind you of the last time a Northerner didn’t marry the Southroner she was supposed to,” she finished. Invoking Aunt Lyanna was a low blow, but she immediately understood what she meant, “You can stay away from him, or you can… _not_.”

“I…”

Sansa regarded her “Whatever you do next, you best have a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for the lovely feedback, you guys are the best, and that's why I'm back - I know Ned Dayne is a shit, but we all need a good heel. 
> 
> He'll get his comeuppance - this, I solemnly swear.


	11. The Less I Know The Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's got everything. It's got angst. It's got smut. It's got corn-chips. It's got smut again. It's named after a Tame Impala song about being miserable at a party. It's effectively a double chapter because sure why not.

Sansa struggled to make her way up the steep incline of the knoll as twilight settled in over the wolfswood.

_We have to talk about it._

She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured the film festival afterparty – the film was…well, bleak, but inspirational, the way she felt about all war films, but something about it seemed to shake Sandor to the core. He came out of the film tight-lipped, and distant, more so than he usually was. He rolled Bran toward the towncar – her brother had resigned himself against _parties_ he’d said crowds didn’t suit him. _Promise you’ll be back –_ she had plead to Sandor, as he shut the car door behind Bran. Arya had…of course, slipped off somewhere. Ned had said something vague and non-committal about her being sick. She, of course, didn’t believe a word of it. She was alone in this now, and the only way out of this was through. Of course she needed to rub elbows at the party, but what she needed more was a familiar face on the peripheries, a constant, if not by her side, then at least near her side.

It seemed he wasn’t going to make good on his promise, as one drink with a local business leader became two drinks with minor nobles, and two drinks became four quite quickly. As a younger Manderly bent her ear on the need for lowering docking fees, she spotted him, slipping quite gracelessly back into the party. She felt a warmth spread over herself, telling herself it was the fourth drink of the night, not the warmth of his presence. As the night wound down, and she had said her goodbyes, he steered her gently out the front door. The city, felt quiet as they walked back to where the car had been parked – she felt her head whirr as she began to sway, feeling suddenly ill at ease with the silence pressing in around her. She looped her arm into his, and he stiffened for a moment before softening. Their glances met and the softness she found in his eyes was enough to make her knees weak.

_Not “we have to talk about it”. We’ve avoided talking about it so far._

 “ _The purse,”_ an unfamiliar voice demanded, and she felt like she’d been plunged into ice water. Standing before them was a hooded man, gun drawn. She’d never felt scared anywhere in her city. She had never felt unsafe, but the colour drained from her face and terror filled her body, as this dream turned to a nightmare. Sandor stopped stock still, unlooping her arm, and tucking her protectively behind her. He put his hands forward.

“Easy there, I don’t think you know what you’re doing,” he said calmly. She could feel her heart racing in her throat, as he spread his arms before her.

“The purse,” the hooded man urged, “and no one gets hu – ”

But before he could finish his sentence, she watched him lunge forward, indelicately but precise, disarming the man before them. Sandor came out of the scuffle holding the gun straight out against the man.

“You best be going, and no one gets hurt,” he trained the gun on him. Without fail, the mugger turned heel and ran. She felt her knees give out – but he was there to reach out and catch her, steering her into a thin niche between buildings.

“I can’t. I can’t believe that happened. I’ve never. I’ve never,” she stammered helplessly, leaning up against the wall, struggling to catch her breath.

“It’s ok now,” he whispered, but she felt herself shaking still. She grasped onto the collar of his jacket. He placed his large, calloused palm on her cheek, wiping away a single tear, “you’re ok now _Little Bird._ ”

 _Little Bird._ She couldn’t bear hearing his gravelly voice so tender and low. His face was so close to hers she could feel the heat of his breath on her lips. In the distance a dog barked, and they broke apart, the spell broken. He breathed deeply, searching her flushed face, before straightening his suit and walking quickly from the alcove, beckoning her to follow him. She stood there completely winded – winded as she was now approaching his cottage. They somehow managed not speak the entire ride home. The entire morning. And the entire day, he spent working alongside her sister and her boyfri – her _coworker._

_Whether he wants to or not, we’re going to talk about it._

She let her breath settle for a moment before rapping her knuckles on the weathered wooden door of the humble cottage. The warm yellow lights inside flicked off, and was followed by a series of crashes, and a litany of foul language.

She knew he was there. She knocked again, this time more insistently than before, not stopping until the door swung open and she almost knocked him in his scarred face. He tried to shut the door quickly, but she was too quick, gracefully sliding into the house and flicking on the light switch. The cottage wasn’t entirely a mess – she had made sure that the staff stopped by once a week to make sure the pantry was stocked the house hadn’t fallen into abject squalor, but it certainly wasn’t as pristine as it could be. Sandor grumbled at the sight of her settling into his kitchen table, and wordlessly began to run water into a heavy pewter kettle.

“Do you have something a touch stronger, if you don’t mind?” she asked. He grunted, still placing the kettle onto the range.

“You always seem to be looking for something stronger. Are you sure you don’t have a problem?” he said, now fishing in his cupboards for some cheap honey mead.

“Quite certain,” she said quelling the sharpness in her voice, she knew two things for certain – that she only drank when she was with him, and he was trying to push her away, “a hair of the dog drink won’t kill me.”

“Suit yourself,” he replied, pouring her a glass and then withdrawing to stand against the counter next to the stove, “If we met in your office, at least we would have something a bit better to drink.”

“Mead is fine. Plus, I don’t want to have this conversation around the children.”

“The _children_ ,” he sneered, eyes still trained purposefully on the burbling kettle, “Gods, they’re only just a bit younger than you.” She refused to respond to that, so he barreled on, “how is the little one doing, she seemed…”

“Sullen,” she finished his sentence sipping the mead. The drink was sickly sweet, but warmed her on the cold night, “After I showed her this weekend’s edition of The Northstar she’s resigned herself to sulking in her room.”

He scoffed, likely conjuring the bizarre image of her sister pining into a pillow after some strapping young lad.

“I’m guessing you didn’t come here to discuss your sister’s love life.”

“Not quite,” she replied simply, “We can’t just go on avoiding each other, never talking about what happened.”

“What exactly is there to talk about?” he said, rescinding his hand back into her lap.

“What is there to talk about? We,” she hesitated, “we almost kissed. And you don’t want to talk about that?”

“We got caught up in a moment. I serve your family. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” she stood, her glass rattling against the table. She walked to the door, and he stood abruptly. She backed her way towards the door, suddenly unable to bear being in his presence.

“You deserve someone young…and whole,” he stepped forward again into her personal space, “not a broken old man like me.”

“What if I don’t want someone young and whole?” she asked looking up at him as he opened the door ahead of her.

“We don’t always get what we want,” he pressed a kiss onto her cheek.

 _That was an understatement_.

* * *

Monday morning, Arya found herself dreading the prospect of going into the theatre, but somehow couldn't help but feel hopeful that perhaps it was a quick lapse.

“Feeling Better?” Dayne asked as she jogged to meet his stride that Monday morning, throwing an arm around her, “I mean I’d kiss you but we’re so close to showtime and –“

_He didn’t want to get sick._

“What?” she replied, not entirely paying attention as she scanned the theatre for any sign of Gendry, but unfortunately, Davos had taken his usual seat behind the audio console, smiling paternally down at her. She hadn’t realized that she and Dayne hadn’t talked since she’d disappeared after the film premiere, “Yeah, no, I’m feeling fine.”

She wasn’t really feeling fine since Gendry had abruptly left her house – in fact, she was feeling somehow more sick than she had felt during the gala, as if a low simmering panic had overtaken her, as she clamoured onto the stage to join the rest of the cast.

“By the end of the week,” Jaquen announced, prowling the edge of stage, hands clasped behind his back, “I expect you to be off book.”

Arya swiveled her head to look among the excited chatter. _Off book?_ She had barely felt _on book_ to begin with, and she came to the uncomfortable realization that it was time to buckle down and focus on her role if she was ever going to make it to opening night.

However, this proved to be easier said than done. A small gnawing feeling turned into an itch, a need to see him – and to her dismay Gendry never resurfaced from the balcony or joined Davos at the audio console for the rest of the rehearsal. Whether he was staring daggers or glancing in earnest, his gaze had been a constant throughout the series, and without it, the actions felt strangely hollow.

She became nervous as he was noticeably absent from work later that night as well. Davos, who had laid out blueprints for the simplest of the scenic construction, seemed less worried as he informed her that he had called in sick.

“He always does this – burns himself out on the first week and doesn’t quite recoup,” Davos scoffed as he placed his stubby carpenter’s pencil firmly behind his ear, “Never did know how to pace himself,” Davos passed her a hammer, and stood up with some difficulty, “but that’s why you’re here now – so let’s have at it.”

Tuesday wore on the same as Monday, Wednesday the same as Tuesday - save the fact that she had a bit more downtime to review her script after Ophelia went down river, though she found most of her time eaten away at correcting Dayne’s sword-fighting techniques for the final battle. By the end of it, she felt just as exhausted as if she had been fighting herself. Dayne receded backstage, rubbing his elbow.

“I think…” Dayne trailed off slightly, “I think we should have a cast party.”

“For opening night?”

“For being off-book,” he said finally, “I think it would really raise the morale around here.”

“A little self-congratulatory, don’t you think?” she snorted, but he looked genuinely hurt.

“As opposed to what?” Dayne shrugged, “sitting at home, pining for you to come home from work?”

It was a low blow that stung her, and her jaw set, “Fine. Let’s have an off-book cast party. Just a little thing – you should probably ice that if it’s still sore,” she said, noticing him still flexing his hands and cringing from the swordplay.

“Just a little thing,” he repeated, his eyes faraway, and his smile wide.

Gendry was still nowhere to be found, but Davos seemed quite pleased with the progress they were making, as they burned through the initial construction phases of the set building. She rubbed her hands into her knees, bruised and sore from the construction.

“We’ll have to get a small set of kneepads,” he remarked, looking at her grimace at the purpling bruise blossoming over both knees. He hesitated, eyes settling on the skeleton of the setpiece looming over them. He settled into a seat, as the two placed the last bit of adhesive to cure.

“I really wouldn’t have marked you as the type who could swing a hammer, but I have to say child, you’re not half bad,” he said swelling with a fatherly pride.

“I appreciate that – Gendry gave me a sort of crash course this weekend,” she confided.

“He did now? When was this?” he asked, voice suddenly suspicious, and she cursed herself internally.

“Saturday,” she couldn’t help but buckle under his severe gaze, “he offered to come help make the house more accessible for Bran,” she felt suddenly like she had gotten him into trouble.

He laughed softly, “The bleeding heart told me that he had the flu. Wait til Marya hears that all the soup she made was wasted – he’s in for a walloping.”

She felt quite suddenly like she had gotten him in trouble and hastily added, “He just helped with some ramps, it wasn’t anything big,” but his look didn’t change, “The doctors had told us quite recently said that Bran will never walk again.”

“Aye,” Davos said gravely, “that’s a shame, he always seemed like a good lad – the cerebral one of the lot,” he stopped, backpedalling, “not to say you’re not cerebral, you’re just…a doer. You get things done. But I wouldn’t always take doctors at their word. They’ve been saying my kidney’s got another 2 years in it for the past five years, and here I am,” he explained, and Arya couldn’t help but blanche, thinking back to the first time Gendry asked her to come back to the theatre. She struggled for the right words to say that wouldn’t sound completely patronising.

“Aren’t there donors for things like that?” she said finally, after stammering for a moment. She realized she had completely failed at the attempt not to sound patronising.

“The lad’s already offered, but I refused it. Way I see it, if you’re going to be in this industry, you’re going to need a stiff drink on occasion,” he remarked with a laugh. She could feel her heart swell hearing he had offered him help. She opened her mouth to reply, “And don’t you go offering me yours. Actresses need it even more than stagehands,” he appraised the adhesive for a moment before throwing his hands up, “it’s useless. We’re sitting here waiting for glue to dry. Let’s call this a night.”

She found herself laying under the heavy covers of her duvet, skimming her weathered copy of the script, but none of it felt like it was really sinking in, as she struggled with the overwhelming urge to reach out to him. Her phone buzzed, and she lunged for it – only to find a coupon emailed to her address. She was about to toss it away, before opening her messages, and feeling the flooding warmth of giving into her worst impulse.

_A: I heard you caught a chill – I’m afraid me tossing you into the pool might’ve contributed to that. And for that I’m truly, deeply, sincerely, sorry._

Her phone buzzed, and she opened the conversation with relish. His response was short and businesslike.

_G: Wasn’t feeling well._

_A: Don’t give me that – I invented that line._

_G: No one ever played sick before you?_

_A: So you’re playing sick._

She waited for a response, the minutes passed by as her eyes scanned over the same five lines of text in her script, over and over. She kept looking quickly to her phone as if she could will it to respond – dare it to, but nothing seemed to work. Finally she gave in. Already down the rabbit hole, she began to pore over their old conversations, script falling by the wayside. _Gods,_ they were flirty. Of course she had played it off as nothing – just friendly banter – but looking back she had been clearly deluding herself. Back when he couldn’t wait to get into her personal space. And now look at them. Absolutely back to square one. It felt as if every time they took a step forward they were only doomed to take two steps backwards At least – at square one he wanted to be close to her, even if he was shit-eatingly unpleasant, but this distance felt like it was too much. _Don’t double text. You’re not that desperate. You’re not that –_

_A: Well regardless of whether you’re playing sick or not you were missed._

_So – fun fact: you are that desperate._

She scrolled further up until her eyes rested on it – the photo he sent. As much as she’d denied it, he was a fucking snack. The chest hair, his toned biceps, the _fuck me_ eyes, and the subtle lip bite was all too much to take in. She slipped her fingers down from her collar where they were resting, running luxuriant little circles over her rapidly hardening nipples. Her fingers dropped down between her legs, stroking firmly at her panties where she could feel the wetness already forming as she gazed at his smouldering intensity. She rarely took care of herself this way – it came out in another way – on stage, in a morning jog, or a blistering workout – and when she did, it was rarely about anyone specific, not even her boyfriend. Somehow, it felt too personal. She teased the sensitive skin at her thighs, knowing if she did this, there’d be no going back, when her phone buzzed.

_G: Miss you too._

It felt like something snapped, and a hunger she’d been long denying needed to be satiated, _right now._ Her fingers plunged into her already sopping depths, fingers grinding around her clit, as her mind flew into overdrive with fantasies of what she wanted him to do: licking at the nape of her neck, sucking and nibbling worshipfully at her sensitive nipples before burying his face between her legs, lapping like a man dying of thirst.

_Oh._

No one had ever touched her like that, but suddenly she knew it was high on her wishlist. Since that first dream, it felt like something long dormant had awakened. She knew she wanted him, but having him flaunt her so directly made her realize that she _needed_ him. And badly. She pictured him looking up at her, eyes blazing, disconnecting just long enough to say, “Good girl. Come for me.”

_Oh._

She moved her other hand from her tits, sliding it experimentally into her depths, breathing quickening with her pace. She worked fastidiously at herself until she felt the unbearable pressure alleviate, like warm honey flowing over her as she peaked under her own machinations. She leaned her head back, mind clear for the first time since Saturday, knowing exactly what she had to do next. _You’re a wolf, and wolves revel in a hunt._

_A: See you at work tomorrow._

_G: And what if I’m still sick?_

_A: You won’t be._

That night she slept more soundly than she had in a long while.

* * *

 

_It was stupid thing to say, “I miss you too” – for all you know she could have missed you carrying things. Or hammering stuff. Or…_

Gendry’s head was spinning trying to come up with an adequate excuse as he parked his car outside the theatre early Thursday morning. It was early, far too early for actors or even Bella to be skulking around the theatre, so he let his mind wander. He said what he said and meant what he meant, he thought pushing in the glass doors, and he’d have to face her at some point – and – and –

 _Oh for Gods’ sake_.

He sucked in breath as he saw her sitting on the edge of his audio console desk in a pair of obscenely tight shorts, and a shirt that just skimmed her midriff. Her ankles were crossed nonchalantly as she drummed her fingers against the desk, a coffee in her other hand. If he had his way, he’d just lay her out on the desk and ravish her, but as it had become increasingly obvious, he wasn’t going to have his way.

“Thought I’d come in early and get some work done,” she said, a wicked smile spreading over her face, “I mean, we’re pretty behind since you’ve been gone.”

“Looks like you’ve gotten pretty far to me,” He said trying to look anywhere but at the woman sitting in front of him, as she shook her hair out of her eyes.

“Got you a coffee,” He accepted it and noticed the ring of red lipstick around the rim of the paper cup, “If you don’t mind, I had a sip,” she said, her voice markedly smooth and demure in a way that made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.

“No problem,” He pressed his lips to the place where hers had just been. After the entire writeup in The Northstar and his conversation with Sansa, he was pretty sure this was as close as he’d ever get to kissing her. She watched him intently, eyes heavy lidded and intense as he resurfaced from a long draught. He stepped forward between her legs, looking down at her, “I’m going to need you to move from my desk though,” he watched her face fall into a resigned grin. She hopped down into the slim gap between the two and stepped aside, gesturing to the desk, and he sunk into his seat, watching her walk away – suddenly dreading the long day of pretending to want nothing to do with her.

With performance closing in the rehearsals had finally become interesting - the cast were finally performing full acts now without any more games or pretense that Jaqen was known for. Despite the fact that Gendry had no real idea what any of the words meant, he could understand the ebb and flow of emotions enough to follow the plot.

The day rounded out with a culminating scene - Ned had squared off across the stage, prowling circles around Arya, seething and venomous, hurling what he assumed to be hurtful words. He felt an uneasy deflating feeling watching the scene, as she became increasingly desperate, eyes full of that same sad need he saw in the doorway on Saturday. He watched as she was dispatched with great haste, and that feeling at his neck prickled again.

“What did you think?” She said, jogging to meet his stride as the other actors filtered out of the theatre.

“Ned Dayne was, uh, being pretty mean to you up there,” he said distantly, trying desperately to avoid the obvious compliment. The theatre had finally emptied, as they made their way back to the stage.

“ _Hamlet_ ,” she corrected, “He’s playing a character, and his name is _Hamlet._ And he’s not being mean. There’s subtext there. I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand it,” she twirled in front of him, running a finger along his chest.

“You’re right, I don’t understand even _the plain text_ ,” he said, eschewing the stairs and vaulting onto the stage.

She followed his lead, moving in one swift, lithe movement, “He’s still in love with her.” She said, sitting on the stage and grasping her construction-bruised knees, “He’s just pushing her away because he knows he can’t be with her. He knows it’s the right thing to do – it’ll hurt less that way.”

He swallowed heavily, “Yeah, see I didn’t get any of that.”

He laid out the blueprints Davos had handed him – they seemed to have already tackled the minimalistic sets, but some of the others looked dazzlingly complicated.

She rested her chin on his shoulder, hot breath tickling his ear, “So what’s the damage?” he felt a shiver ripple through him quickly before jerking back quickly.

“What is up with you?” she asked tentatively.

_Now that’s a question._

“Nothing,” he said quickly, putting distance between the two of them.

“Because it doesn’t seem like nothing,” she continued, folding her arms, that determined look he loved so much in her eye, “What did my sister say to you?”

He could feel himself blanche considerably, “Nothing,” he repeated again, struggling to grasp for a lie. She hadn’t exactly said _nothing._ In fact, she most definitely said _something_ – “This is out there now, and you need to get ahead of it. The last time this happened…well, you know what happened…” He didn’t understand the implication until Sansa kissed him on the cheek and said “I’m sorry, this must be hard for you,” and it all snapped into place. He knew he’d have to put distance between the two of them, and fast.

“She showed you that _fucking_ _rag_ didn’t she,” she accused venomously. He breathed deeply, composing himself for the thing that he hated himself for having to do.

“Yeah,” he breathed, knowing what he’d have to do, “yeah she did.”

“I’m going to fucking kill her,” she hissed to herself, he felt guilt spring up in his throat. He didn’t want to put any more distance between her and her sister, he found, despite the fact that she scared him even more than Arya, he quite liked Sansa as a friend.

“Don’t, she was right to – they’re going to be all over this.”

“All over _what?_ we haven’t done anything,” she retorted coldly.

“All that matters is what _this_ looks like,” he said, putting some distance between him and her, inspecting the foam board Davos had applied to the wall.

“Don’t act like you had no part in this, _let’s go find your dog, let me help your brother_ ,” she said in a mocking singsong voice. He grimaced. Of course he had a part in this, but she wasn’t blameless either.

“And you didn’t do any of this either: _you can’t sleep on the floor, your shirt was buttoned wrong,”_ he rebutted right back, wiping his forehead. He looked over her guiltily, knowing what came next, “you want to have it both ways,” he had no idea where he was going with things until his eyes settled onto the purple bruises that had blossomed on both knees and shins. He swallowed deeply and barrelled on, bracing himself, “You want to spend your time with me, but at the same time, I see those bruises on your knees, don’t think I don’t know how you get those,” he had meant to push her away, but as soon as he said it he knew he had gone too far – her knuckles were white around the handle of the hammer.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked pointedly, breath punctuating every word.

“ _Nothing_ ,” he muttered quietly, watching her close the space between them dread filling him with every step she took.

“If you didn’t mean nothing you wouldn’t have said it. Even if I did get these bruises doing what you’re _suggesting_ I did, that’s none of your business,” she snarled, approaching him slowly as she spoke, “Who I date, and what I do with them is none of your business.”

She was absolutely right. He couldn’t bear to look at her, so he looked down and away, swallowing heavily, “You made that painfully clear. And for your information, I got these bruises doing your job, while you were out, what? Being a miserable shit because you didn’t get what you wanted for once? You need to take responsibility.”

“That’s very rich coming from you. My father died, my city was ransacked, I grew up in an orphanage, because a _Northerner_ wouldn’t fall in line, so don’t talk to me about responsibility,” He knew insulting her was one thing, but insulting her family was something else entirely. When the war had broke out the North and the Stormlands had justified it by calling it the kidnapping and rape of her aunt Lyanna. But what had come to light after the fighting ended was that it was an elopement. It was an embarrassing scandal, marring the entire victory, made tensions fraught, until the late king had made sweeping expenditures to quell the unease. Or at least that was what he remembered from his high school history class. He never expected to be hurling history at the girl he wanted, or for her to be hurling _hammers_ –

 _Gods she’s going to hurl a hammer._ He thought as her face blanched and she raised the hammer over her head.

He ducked, the spinning hammer narrowly missing his forehead as it sizzled through the board that was supposed to be part of a tower wall.

“What in the seven was that?” Davos called from backstage before hobbling into sight, eyeing the hole where the hammer had hit, “Both of you stay where you are,” he walked to the damaged piece of scenery, “Who –“

“It was me,” he said quickly, and she glared at him, “I swung too hard, and it just flew out of my hand.”

“Miss Stark, you can take the rest of the evening off tonight – maybe some extra work will teach the lad to hold on a bit more tight,” he said rubbing his eyes frustratedly. She didn’t hesitate to leave, grabbing her things and marching off stage fuming. He watched her the entire way as she left, his heart sagging. _You did the right thing for the realm,_ a voice in his head tried to console him, but in that moment he understood very much so how Hamlet must have felt.

As she reached the audio console she spotted his empty coffee cup and swatted it wildly against the wall.

“I know that wasn’t you,” Davos whispered under his breath, eyes still trailing her out of the theatre, “What in seven hells did you say to her anyway?”

When Gendry peeled his eyes open the next morning he felt as if he’d been socked in the gut.

_Why do I need to go to work?_

_To make money._

_What does money do again?_

_Buys you food._

_I don’t feel like eating._

In a world where Arya hated him, none of these things made any sense anyway. He dragged himself into work, to find Bella in the lobby chatting brightly with Ned Dayne. Bella waved at him, and he managed to drag his leaden arm up to wave feebly back back as Dayne was dispatched.

“Wow, you look like shit, up all night with,” she lowered her voice conspiratorily, “with the missus?” she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively in a way that made him groan.

He rubbed his eyes exhaustedly, “Not quite.”

“So I’m gathering you didn’t do what I told you to – you know tell the truth, whatever,” she said boredly, “Speaking of…” she nodded towards the entrance, where Arya had just entered. She glared icily at him, nostrils flared before sharply looking straight forward.

“She is _really_ mad. What did you do?” She turned back to him, eyebrows knit.

“I,” his voice felt tight in his throat until he could feel his voice break, “I gotta get to work.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but he was too embarrassed to continue to conversation. Without anymore conversation, he pushed forward before he settled down into his desk at the back of the theatre and touched the slightly sticky ring where his coffee had sat the morning before. Today, over and over, they rehearsed the final two acts. Ophelia dies. Dayne dies. Everyone dies. Arya dies. Hamlet dies. Everyone dies. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The subject matter wasn’t improving his mood much, so he took a moment to get some fresh air in the lobby. A couple patrons purchasing tickets had cleared out, and Bella was reading that _fucking_ copy of _The Northstar_. She looked up at him, folding the magazine.

“Were you crying?” she said incredulously. He wasn’t, but it felt just as embarrassed as he would have been if he was.

“No,” he shot back defensively, sniffing loudly, “my eyes are just red because I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“Hey. Hey. Stop, stop, _stop,_ ” Bella said sharply raising her hands, “Stop moping. You’re grossing me out.”

He took a long breath and felt himself a bit more centered, “I’m fine.”

She shrugged both shoulders, with a grin, “If you’re fine then, I need your help. You can’t say no,” she hopped up from the stool she was sitting on and rounded out of the little kiosk, shutting the door lightly behind her.

“You know I’m not really in the best place to,” he began, but she lifted up a single finger, warning him. She seemed oddly more threatening now that she was out of her little box.

“You said you were fine. And I’m always helping out with all of _your_ _drama_ ,” she chided him, face serious.

_She had a point, she was always there to listen to him mewl on about his problems._

“ _Fine_ ,” he groaned, kneading his eyes, “what is it?”

She clapped her hands with uncharacteristic glee.

“Tonight, I need a wingman,” she said finally, a wry smile pulling at her lips. _Any night but tonight._

Gendry sighed, feeling defeated, “You know I work tonight.”

“That’s fine. It doesn’t start until 9:30 anyway,” she said, he opened his mouth to groan that he really wanted to go to sleep, “And don’t tell me how this is young people nonsense.”

“It’s young people nonsense,” he groaned, despite the fact that Bella was three months older than him. She stared at him, stone-faced, “Fine,” he threw his hands up exasperatedly.

She clapped him hard on the shoulder triumphantly, “It’ll be fun, I promise. It’s ‘uppercrust’. Wear something _nice._ ”

He trudged back into the theatre to retake his seat. He crossed his arms sourly, listening to a monologue Arya was doing. Wingman he’d be, but he wouldn’t be _happy_ about it.

* * *

 

Davos gave her the night off again, “The lad’s never going to learn he can’t play hooky unless he’s punished,” he whispered with a wink. Of course she was grateful for the opportunity to get as far away from him as possible, and a party was the perfect distraction. She put together an outfit – something simple and comfortable, but still nice enough to be seen out and about in. A pair of high-waisted denim shorts that she waffled over wearing, but after Gendry’s comments, she felt a stubborn need to show them off. She pulled on a baggy white shirt she French tucked into her pants, and a vintage military jacket she had bought at the Crossing on her last trip down south.

“Sansa, I’m heading out,” she called, into her office where she saw her sitting reading the evening news.

“Hmm? I’m sorry I wasn’t listening,” Sansa looked up from her paper – her eyes looked so unusually sad that she could barely stand to look at her.

She hesitated for a moment, pulling on her jacket, “You know what? Do you want to come with me to a thing that Dayne’s hosting?” she asked suddenly.

“I’m not really dressed for it,” she began, but she cut her off.

“I mean it’s just a little casual thing with friends,” she played it off, “it’d be awesome if you could come. I’m having…a week.”

 _A week_ was a fun way to describe being dumped by a man you weren’t even dating.

Sansa folded the paper, and looked over her face, “Well if it’s just a little thing…” she smiled, “let’s go.”

 _So much for just a little thing_ , Arya thought as the door flung open to reveal Dayne’s apartment filled with chattering throngs of people congregating around the loft space. Every couple minutes a group of fresh faces would arrive, bringing with them more food, more alcohol, more noise. A small get together of a couple friends had spun wildly out of control, but Dayne seemed to be reveling in every moment – fluttering though the space, gathering people to play drinking games, he reached out to assuage Sansa – who she was increasingly regretting inviting.

“Sansa!” he cried, delighted to see her, “It’s so great to see you again!”

“Yes, the last time I saw you was at the –“

“The gala yes,” he finished the sentence quickly for her, “Poor Arya was sick that night.”

Sansa looked over her, curiously, seeing right through her lie, “She sick so often, I don’t know what you see in my sister.”

He laughed lightly, throwing a hand around her waist, “She’s outgoing, she’s talented, everyone likes her. What’s not to like?”

Dayne had spotted someone else by the stereo and rushed off to say hello. Sansa nodded with a forced smile that telegraphed that Dayne’s assessment of his sister was…not quite accurate. She slipped by Arya, leaving her rooted to the spot, fighting a whole body cringe.

Sansa had brought along Sandor – which seemed like overkill and simultaneously understandable. After the story printed in _The Northstar,_ both of them had become rather skittish about privacy, and it seemed fitting that she’d want an extra bit of security. She strode over to him as he leaned against the wall facing the kitchen, look desperately out of place, nervously fingering cigarettes in his breast pocket.

“You know you can’t smoke in here,” she warned, as she passed by, sipping an unconscionably strong drink that she had regretted not mixing properly.

“Well fuck me if I’m going to let that shite stop me,” he laughed, placing one between his lips, and lowering his face to light the cigarette, “I don’t see what use I am here. A couple people fine – but this many, what am I supposed to do? Search their phones? Excuse me, Mister Cunt? Do you happen to be a reporter?”

She laughed lightly, “It really got out of control – serves me right for thinking he’s capable of just inviting…”

She trailed off, eyes falling onto the most recent guests to cross the threshold. Her lips parted slightly,  heart thumping loudly in her throat. A comically overdressed Gendry stepped nervously into the party, carrying, _gods_ , a bottle of wine, followed by a far more on-brand Bella Rivers – wearing a slinky halter and short skirt. Seeing him standing there in a tie and blazer, matching belt and shoes, looking utterly lost, made her think that his attendance wasn’t exactly his own idea.

“Bella – I’m so fucking overdressed,” she heard him bellow to her, but she had already scurried off quickly to join the group now playing flip cup, throwing her arms around Dayne’s neck, “Bella – where do I put this? Bella?” he asked frantically, but then he made eye contact with her and his mouth fell open, eyes panicking as he began to search frantically for his friend. Arya drained her cup, pressing her eyes shut at the terrible taste before handing it to Sandor, “What the hell do you want me to do with this?” He asked, but she waved him off.

She found her feet guiding her to Gendry before her mind could catch up to her. She grabbed him by the elbow and steered him into the deserted coat room.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” she said, glaring at him.

“I, I,” he stammered, in a way that usually she’d find cute, but tonight, she felt nothing but cold wrath towards him, “I agreed to be Bella’s wingman, but she didn’t tell me who’s party this was.”

She looked him up and down for a moment. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him. Wanted to yell at him. Wanted to _throw_ at him. How could he go from being such a gentleman, to a raging asshole to this…this…timid little mouse of a man standing in front of her.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he said his voice small, and his eyes unable to meet hers.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said with a sense of finality. She wanted the conversation to be over, but she couldn’t find it in herself to move from his side, arms folded staunchly.

“What is it even for?”

“Being off book,” she replied.

“That’s a little self-congratulatory don’t you think?” he said, struggling for a grin.

_For fuck’s sake please stop reading my mind when I’m trying to hate you._

“I mean,” he stumbled, “Congratulations anyway.”

She grabbed the bottle of wine from his hands, it was a cheap Dornish Red with a twist-off cap. Too fancy to bring to a house party, but not fancy enough to bring to a dinner party. The stupid bull was completely out of his depths, and if he weren’t such a _idiot_ she almost feel bad for him. She twisted off the cap, and tilted it back to drink from it like it was a bottle of beer – it wasn’t particularly _good_ wine, but it was worth it to watch his eyes widen considerably as she drank deeply from the bottle. She looked back at him daring, feeling the heavy headrush as the drink went to her head.

“You _are_ really overdressed,” she remarked, drinking him in head to toe.

“I feel like I’m dressed like someone’s dad,” he said, smiling weakly.

“Hold this,” she thrust the bottle back into his hands, before her hands flying toward his belt, his hands reached out to stop hers, but she simply maintained eye contact, daring him.

“This doesn’t mean we’re good now,” she murmured as she dug out the fringes of his shirt from the belt and untucked them from his jeans, “I just felt _bad_ for you,” she repeated. It was stupid, but the fuzzy, drunken recess of her heart fluttered at the stupid excuse to touch him. She unwound his tie into her palm, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his gingham shirt, letting a tiny tuft of chest hair peek through. She stepped back, “There. From dad to daddy,” she hissed lightly. Colour filled his cheeks and she couldn’t help feeling a little bit proud, snatching the bottle of wine from him and walking back into the fray, drinking deeply. Her feet felt lighter, her movements more fluid, her face hot, but more than anything she felt victorious.

“Th-thank you,” his stammering voice faded out as he stepped towards the edges of the crowd. She spotted Dayne by a table playing a drinking game whose rules she barely remembered.

“What’s that you got there?” Dayne asked, and she looked down at her hands, to see his tie was still balled in her palms. She hurled it to the floor.

 _Fuck his tie. Fuck his wine. Fuck him._ Her mind hummed for a moment as she couldn’t help but imagine straddling his perfect and – _Not “fuck him” like that_. But she couldn’t help herself.

“ _Nothing_ ,” she said, feeling her voice begin to slur. She tipped back the wine bottle to her lips again regardless, reveling in the warmth shooting through his body.

“No, I meant the wine,” Dayne asked glowingly, gesturing to the bottle, “Dornish red! Cheap as shit, but it’s still better than the garbage you have up here,” he laughed deeply. She didn’t think it was really funny, but she knew she had to play along. She threw her head back and laughed deeply, “Who brought this anyway?”

She looked back at Gendry as he was removing his blazer slinging it casually over his shoulders and craning his neck to look for Bella, before his eyes locked with her own.

_You want to see a Northerner fall in line?_

Dayne began to turn his head in Gendry’s direction, but before his eyes could fall on him she had grabbed his face and kissed him hard, just as they rehearsed time and time again earlier that week. Breaking away, Dayne smiled a glowing, incredulous smile.

“Wow, ok. Remind me to get you off book more often,” he laughed passing her another plastic cup. She drank deeply from it, not keeping count how many this was, but knowing that each drink she drank made it easier to forget about what was pressing in around her.

_She was certainly off book now._

* * *

 

He was fuming.

He was furious.

He was so fucking hot in this buttoned up shirt.

He couldn’t help but abandon his jacket and roll up his sleeves. He spotted Bella across the room, leaning against the wall being chatted up by an unfamiliar dark-haired guy. Gendry stormed towards her yanking her into the kitchen to the dismay of the young man leaning his palm against the wall.

“Thank you for that,” she said, dusting herself off, “wasn’t really feeling that guy – just looking for an exit,” she said with a smile.

“That’s what you look like when you’re looking for an exit?” he groaned, fiddling with the edges of his sleeves that kept unrolling. She ignored him, folding her arms.

“So what’s the crisis now?” she hopped onto the counter of the kitchen, grabbing a handful of corn chips from an overflowing bag.

“This is Ned Dayne’s apartment,” he hissed desperately, running his hands through his hair.

“More of a loft really, but it doesn’t have a terrace, or maybe some kind of rooftop patio – ” he glared at her to stop talking, “Yes this is Ned Dayne’s apartment. _So_?”

His mouth fell open, and rage surged through him, “Why would you bring me here?”

“Because I’m tired of seeing you moping and I want you to either shit or get off the pot,” she clapped her hands so the crumbs would fall into the sink next to her.”

“I’m getting off the pot then,” he said with a sense of finality, “I have made an executive decision to get off the pot, my hat has been untossed into the ring, I – ”

But Bella simply hopped down off the counter, her mouth pressed into a straight line. She patted his shoulder patronizingly

“Very convincing monologue big guy, an outstanding performance. Maybe you should try out for the Summer Series next year,” she said wryly, “Now get out there and get your girl,” she walked out of the kitchen, “Or at least try to have fun.”

_Fun._

His eyes raked across the party – anywhere he looked people were having fun. Dancing, laughing, kissing. _Kissing._ Dayne attached by the lips to a swaying, swaggering wine drunk Arya. He drifted slowly through the main area before he reached a narrow, secluded seating area with nothing but a sofa and some arm chairs set beneath an wide open factory window. A cool breeze filtered through, and he saw Sansa seated by herself by a bank of old factory windows. He approached slowly, testing the waters.

“Can I sit down here?” he implored, holding his jacket in his arms.

“Of course,” she said, before the two lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. She eyed her minder in the distance, and scooted closer to him, looking back out into the crowd, “They’re scared of me.”

“Who?”

“Them, all the Northerners,” she responded tilting her chin upward at them. She was right - They didn’t dare look at her. Gendry considered it for a moment – she was a _celebrity_ to some extent, that was for certain, but she was also their _lady_ , “They think it’s still like the old days. One wrong word and,” she zipped her fingers across her neck humorously, “ _off with their heads_. We don’t do that anymore. And yet…”

“It must be lonely,” he said quietly, considering it seriously for the first time. His eyes followed cheers to a table in the corner, where he could see Arya tossing a ping-pong ball into a plastic cup of beer – throwing her arms up in riotous abandon as it sunk into a red cup. She was having fun. More fun than he’d ever seen her have with or without him. She certainly didn’t seem as lonely as she usually did.

“Are you ok?” Sansa prodded suddenly.

“Fine,” he said, trying to sound brave and composed.

“You look like you’re about to vomit, Mister Waters,” Sansa replied incisively. She did have that preternatural ability that her sister did to cut through the bullshit. But then again, how could he vomit if he hadn’t eaten anything since last night?

He looked left and right – she was right, everyone was too scared to be in earshot, “I tried to push her away like you said, and I pushed too hard,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“She told me your cursed on our aunt’s name,” she nodded.

“I mean, I also insinuated that she got those bruises on her knees by – ” he began, but Sansa simply patted him on the hands reassuringly, cutting him short.

“I’m sure whatever you said, it was _very_ charming,” she said comfortingly, but her voice betrayed anything but comfort.

“I mean I pushed her away before. I told her I love her like a sister. I told her she wasn’t my type. I told her _you_ were my type,” he said turning on the couch to face her.

“That was a very stupid thing to do,” she remarked.

“Well I know that now. But she just kept coming back. I knew if I said something _personal_ , she wouldn’t react, but if I went after her family…” he drifted off. Both of them understood the implications. Arya would take slights against herself, but she would not have people speaking ill of her family.

“Clever,” she mused, “ _Stupid_ , but clever.”

“She used to call me her _stupid bull._ And now she hates me,” he croaked, looking at her down another beer and kissing him _again_.

When she and Ned broke apart, he had spotted something in the distance. He took her hand and the two tore off gleefully, Arya swaying precariously as she went. _Gods the Little Wolf is drunk._ Gendry traced him across the room, and by the entrance he spotted Mycah hoisting a keg of beer victoriously over his head.

“Who wants to do keg stands?” Mycah boomed, all eyes suddenly glued to him. A roar of approval rent the room, Dayne clapped him on the back. The crowd waited on tenterhooks as Mycah struggled to tap the keg. Gendry had done many a keg stand in his days and wasn’t very keen on doing another. _Arya_ on the other hand, had stepped up onto the coffee table arms raised in victory.

“She is really drunk, isn’t she?” he said curiously, “is she usually like this drunk?”

“I wouldn’t know, really. She usually likes to pretend she isn’t _this_ governed by her emotions, but I know with some certainty that she doesn’t hate you. If she did hate you, she wouldn’t be this deep in her cups and all over the Dornishman,” she looked over to her, with a wistful smile.

“You think?” he said, watching her sling her hair into a ponytail and toss her canvas jacket into the crowd.

“Oh I know,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, and as he looked back to Sansa, he traced her hungry eyes looking directly over his shoulder at their Southron minder, who glared back with a seething intensity.

“This isn’t about me, is it? You’ve been eyeing up that Sandor bloke since the moment I sat down,” he said with a laugh, snapping things in place. _He was there to make Sandor jealous, and she was there to make…oh gods,_ “This is a very stupid plan you know.”

“Sadly, you haven’t cornered the market on stupid plans,” she said touching his shoulder lightly, “But I know now what it feels like to be kept apart for stupid reasons.”

“So that’s the change of heart – last week you were telling me to have a plan and stay away,”

“I never _explicitly_ told you to stay away,” she said, just as stubborn as her sister.

“It was very heavily implied,” he said sourly.

“Tell me this Mister Waters – what is it you see in my sister?” she asked, looking back towards the crowd.

“She’s good at everything she puts her mind to,” he looked at her in the distance, being held up, as she guzzled beer, “Even keg stands, I guess,” he laughed, “But she’s too stubborn to start most things, because she knows she’s going to want to be the best at them. She doesn’t like being told what to do, but she respects people who call her out. She’s got a fire in her, but a cold fire – she’s fierce. She’s funny. I love her jokes, and her laugh, and how she gets so hot blooded when we fight, but I can’t stand when she’s mad at me,” the words came fast and fumbling and he couldn’t stop them. A silence settled in between them again that made him incredibly uneasy with everything he had just said.

He turned back to Sansa, still silent, a lump growing in his throat, “Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head.

“My sister is serious, and she’s quiet. And for that reason people tend to project their desires onto her. They use her as a mirror. I asked Ned the same question and do you know what he said? She’s outgoing, she’s talented, and everyone likes her. He was describing himself,” Sansa said with some finality. He listened the crowd chant _chug chug_ as she righted herself, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, before shucking it entirely and spinning it around in the air. She hopped down from the table and Dayne took place.

“But you – you see her the way she really is. The way I thought she’d never be again after that accident – for a while she was so passive. But meeting you…it breathed a fire into her again. And frankly, if I have to choose between my sister’s angst and the Southerner’s hating us – I’d rather have the latter. It’s almost guaranteed regardless, and much easier to avoid on a day to day basis.”

“So what does all that mean?” he said looking at her intensely, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the praise being heaped on him.

“The Dornish will understand, it’s part of their culture,” She said softly. He narrowed his eyes, screwing up his face. He still didn’t follow, “You idiot. You have my blessing, just…for old god’s sake be discreet,” she placing a supportive hand on his cheek.

“You mean – “ he breathed heavily, and it all clicked. This was his go-ahead. His senses suddenly felt heightened - in the distance he could hear the crowd cheering on Ned as he guzzled down beer. A roar went up in the distance as Ned completed his stand in the distance. Gendry buried Sansa in a relieved hug, kissing her brightly on the cheek, taking her face in both hands.

It was happening. It was impossible. But it was happening. All he’d have to do is –

“I can’t believe you would do that,” Arya’s voice slurred, she had slithered through the still-captivated crowd, “That’s my fucking _sister_ ,” she pushed hard on his shoulder, “But she was always your type, wasn’t she.”

“It’s not what you think it is,” Sansa warned.

“And _you_ ,” she said coldly, “I don’t even want to look at you,” she said, before climbing onto the window sill and rolling onto the fire-escape outside. The loud clatter of her boots on the wrought iron clattered loudly through the room, but no one in the crowd seemed to notice, as they cheered on Bella – no one, but Dayne who had dashed through the crowd after his girlfriend.

“Arya, you can’t go out there, it’s not safe,” he yelped, but it was drowned out in an almighty cheer.

“Wait, Arya, let me explain,” Gendry moaned, half climbed through the window. He glanced down, spotting the alleyway storeys below through the thin slats in the fire escape, and felt his throat constricting with fear. Before he could right himself onto the escape, Dayne had managed to leap ahead of him after Arya. Gendry called after her again, “Arya wait it’s - ”

But his sentence was punctuated when she spun on the spot, and a sharp left hook made purchase with Dayne’s face, eyes bleary with tears, “You have no shame,” she slurred back at him. A sickening crunch rent the alleyway below and Dayne reeled backward into the exterior wall, out cold. Gendry stood blinking for a moment, just adjacent to the fray, and rolled out onto the escape, “Sansa,” he beckoned back into the apartment, “A hand if you will?”

She scrambled effortlessly onto the small plateau, eyes widening.

“Just do something to stop the bleeding,” he said, grasping hold of the railing as he lifted himself to full height, “clean him up a little bit, and make sure he…doesn’t die, I guess,” he winced, “I’m gonna go after her.”

He stepped forward and the fire escape groaned precariously. He considered his options, but as the sound of her furious footsteps trailed higher and higher, and all he knew was that he had to get to her. He began climbing wildly up the staircase, taking steps two at a time.

“No, no, no, no,” he panted under his breath, as he finally caught up to her. He disembarked onto the thankfully solid ground of the deserted rooftop. He spotted her still several lengths ahead of him.

“Arya, listen,” he called out, making towards her, but she simply kept stepping backward as he approached, folding her arms against the cold.

“You made this big fucking deal of s-saying you’re going to leaveme alone, and we have to _behave,_ and _fall in line_ and all that bullshit, and you go and kiss my sister,” she yowled, stumbling then catching herself. Her eyes were glassy and drunk, but they were narrowed, blazing all the same, “and then you kissed _my fucking sister_.”

“Remember what you said about subtext. About the Hamlet? How he was pushing her away because it would be easier that way,” he said stepping forward quickly.

“I don’t remember what I fucking did five minutes ago,” she said with a desperate laugh.

He closed his eyes and sighed, “All I mean is I didn’t mean any of those things I said.”

This time as he approached her, she didn’t step backwards, but hurtled towards him, a flurry of little fists pounding against his chest, “and just so you know I kissed her on the cheek,” he corrected, advancing quickly trying to let her expend her energy as she pounded against his chest, “I kiss a lot of people on the cheek.”

“You’ve never kissed me on the cheek,” she said darkly, and he grabbed her wrists, stilling the rain of punches. He licked his lips and leaned in slowly, pressing his lips gently into her cheek, smelling the delicious scent of her hair, luxuriating in the softness of her skin. When he broke away, her breathing had slowed, but her storm grey eyes were still as stern as ever, watching him with the wolfish intensity that made him feel weak.

“Are we even?” he said, releasing her wrists. Her hands fell to his chest. She stared at him for a moment, and he felt the unease of her eyes rapt in attention on him, “I said are we –“

But she cut him short, pulling hard at his collar and grasping at the nape of his neck, drawing him into a bruising kiss. The thrill of desire bolted through him – the kind of feeling he had tried so hard to suppress put on plain display. Every moment that passed he feared she’d break from him and run. But somehow, impossibly, she pulled him closer, staggering entwined with him, pushing him hard against the door of to the stairwell.

Of all the ways he ever envisioned this happening, and he had often – this was not one of them. And yet there she was, one hand clawing at his shirt, and the other cupping his cheek drawing him further into the kiss. Her tongue darted against his bottom lip, probing curiously. He yielded enthusiastically, letting their needy mouths explore, savouring the deep, breathless tangle they’d become. Of all the kisses he had seen on stage, or in real life, she had never, _never_ kissed Dayne like this, he thought proudly. Her hands travelled downward, slipping underneath the hem of his shirt, cold, soft hands tracing the lines of his body, and his mind was dragged mercilessly back to the present.

He wound his hands through her hair, pulling her ponytail out, and running his hands through her chestnut locks. He tried to pull her closer, but the motion just made her nip hard at his bottom lip, sending a delirious jolt of pleasurable pain through his body, “My Little Wolf likes to bite, does she?” he breathed roughly. She disconnected her lips from his, and decisively grabbed his jaw, licking a hot stripe up the column of his neck, before lavishing it with wet, opened mouth kisses, dragging involuntary, animalistic growl from the back of his throat. She was in complete control, and he couldn’t get enough. But he needed her closer. He let his hands fall down towards her hips, palming hard at her perfect ass, pulling her closer as she wound her hips expertly into his, grinding hard into his arousal.

“Fuck,” he gasped. What she had done that night in the dressing room was a pale spectre of what she was doing now  - the feeling was more than he could have hoped for. The sound of his words urging her forward, recapturing his mouth again more passionately than before.

“Juss like tha,” she moaned roughly against his mouth. The sound of her slurred speech, the smell of liquor on her breath was horribly, immensely sobering. He broke apart suddenly, sighing deeply as she continued on sucking and nibbling wet kisses at the sensitive juncture where his chin and neck meet.

From the moment their lips met, he knew he was over. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to taste her again. He didn’t care if it started a diplomatic rift. Gods, he didn’t care if it started a war. But he knew that _this_ wasn’t right. Not right now. Not right here. Not with her like this.

She peppered his neck with kisses, his breath hitching as she swiped her tongue over the pulse point of his neck. She hungrily met his lips once more, hands reaching down for his belt buckle – the mere insinuation of it making him ache for release. He stopped her hands.

“Don’t you want me?” she breathed into his neck, the earnestness in her voice heart breaking. He entwined her hand with his, and brought it to his mouth, kissing gently. She withdrew her hand from his, swallowing hard, eyes brimming with injury. He placed a hand on her cheek and she leaned into his touch.

“So fucking much,” He tilted her head back, running calloused thumb roughly over her kiss-swollen lips. She watched him, glazed eyes still engrossed and lustful. He reached down and placed a gentle, tender kiss on her lips, “But when I kiss you,” he kissed her again, he couldn’t help it. He needed more. He broke away slowly this time, watching her eyelids flutter as he gazed at her, “I want you to remember it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are through the looking glass. For real. Thanks for waiting it out, because here we go.


	12. Hair of the Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up where we left off - a series of both embarrassing and frustrating and sexy misadventures leading back to the place where this was always going.

“Don’t you want me?” she breathed into his neck, the earnestness in her voice heart breaking. He entwined her hand with his, and brought it to his mouth, kissing gently. She withdrew her hand from his, swallowing hard, eyes brimming with injury. He placed a hand on her cheek and she leaned into his touch.

“So fucking much,” He tilted her head back, running calloused thumb roughly over her kiss-swollen lips. She watched him, glazed eyes still engrossed and lustful. He reached down and placed a gentle, tender kiss on her lips, “But when I kiss you,” he kissed her again, he couldn’t help it. He needed more. He broke away slowly this time, watching her eyelids flutter as he gazed at her, “I want you to remember it.”

She sighed deeply, closing her eyes, and his mind was racing. He wrapped his arms around her, and she clung just as desperately to his shirt.

“Arya, please say something,” he pleaded, but she stayed silent, still burrowed into him. He felt her hands slowly relinquish his shirt, and a long breath that caught at the back of her throat. He leaned down curiously to listen to her breathing, it wasn’t shallow or unsteady. He felt her pulse, for anything that would give him pause. She was just soundly asleep. He sighed, feeling grateful he stopped when he did. It would have injured his pride so much more than it already was if she’d have passed out when they were kissing.

He had to think this out. If he took her back the way he came down the fire escape eventually they’d hit the ladder, and she was in no condition to climb down two storeys. They might have better luck in the stairwell, but he’d need someone to make sure the coast is clear. A loud ring came from Arya’s back pocket, and she stirred a bit. He plunged his hand into the pocket, fumbling to silence it – _Sansa._

“Hey,” he breathed into the receiver.

Sansa sounded confused, but not unhappy, “Not exactly who I was expecting to answer, but ok.”

“Is Dayne still out?” he asked, hoping she was still standing by his side.

“He goes in and out. Can’t remember who hit him,” she said, and he let out a long sigh.

“Thank Gods,” he sighed, “We gotta go.”

“He’s probably a little concussed, so I’m a bit scared of leaving him,” she replied

“I’ll get someone on that. We can’t make it down the ladder, so we’ll have to take the stairwell—"

“Is our highness too drunk for that,” she cut across, her tone playful, but mocking.

“M’lady is a bit indisposed - she passed out on me.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t vomit on you.”

“A guy can dream,” he laughed, “I’ll meet you down there.”

“Ok now little wolf. Let’s call it a night,” he said aloud to no one in particular. He scooped her little body into his arms, marvelling at how light she was for someone so strong. He wrenched open the door, finding himself in the stairwell listening to the chatter of a couple stray partygoers echo from a few flights down. He froze on the plateau, setting her down for a moment before taking his phone and surreptitiously dialing Bella. It rang five times, each time an impatient dread growing in his stomach, before Bella answered with an annoyed “ _This better be good._ ”

“I’m gonna need a favour,” he murmured, “I’m going to need you to make a scene in the stairwell and clear some people out,” he said and waited a long time before she answered. She finally sighed.

“You’re a shit wingman, you know that?”

“Bella? Bella?” he asked, but she had already hung up. He waited there, each moment passing feeling more and more dread that she wasn’t going to come help. There was a gasp of a pneumatic door and he leapt at the sound. He peered down over the rail to see Bella fly through the door, face in her hands, blubbering incoherently. He knew she could do a good ugly cry, but this was above and beyond. He watched the couples in the stairwell scatter out the door that she pointed to, yowling in melodramatic pain, before the door slammed shut behind her, the stairwell completely empty. Bella gave him the thumbs up signal. He sighed deeply, scooping up Arya’s tiny body into his arms, and she stirred for a moment, before burying her tiny face into his chest. Gendry made his way down the flights of stairs, before Bella stopped, jaw completely slack at the sight.

“What the hell did you get yourself into?” she said, completely scandalized, but unable to help the glee filling her face.

“Nothing,” he hissed, “I’ll tell you tomorrow, but only if you’ll promise me something.”

“Anything,” she said eyes wide. Arya stirred in his arms again, fists gripping at his shirt. He felt pink rising in his ears.

“How do you feel about playing doctor?” he asked

Bella cocked her head with a sly grin, “I told you I love you like a sister big guy.”

“Not for me,” he said, “Ned Dayne is passed out cold. Mildly concussed. Desperately confused.”

“What happened?”

“Tomorrow,” he insisted, and Bella crossed her arm stubbornly, “Who knows maybe he’ll go full Florence Nightingale on you and you two will fall madly in love.”

“Don’t give me any ideas,” she said with a sad smile, leaning against the door back out, “And if he asks what happened?”

“Say I punched him,” he blurted without thinking through the ramifications of the lie.

“Gods you are uniquely bad at this,” she shook her head, “I’ll come up with something. Just get this one home to bed. She’s had a long night.”

He made his way down the staircase, at every turn breathing a long sigh of relief when there was no one there waiting. He exited out into the dark alley, and waited, his heart still hammering. He looked left and right before the lights of the town car blared on, rolling forward between the narrow buildings. From the backseat Sansa stepped out, carefully sidestepping a puddle.

Her sister brushed her hair aside with such tenderness as she stirred, “The little fucking idiot. Well we were long overdue for her to hit her rebellious period. Thank you mister Waters.”

“You think I’m leaving?” he scoffed protectively.

“She’s with her family now,” Sansa reassured him, “what else can you do.”

He didn’t budge, “I’m not leaving.”

Sansa stepped back into the car and beckoned him.

“Fine, get in the town car. But the moment you see she’s home safe, Clegane here is taking you home,” he stooped down to set her on the middle seat, and her sister righted her, buckling her seatbelt.

The ride back to the manor was mostly silent. More than anything Gendry spent the ride avoiding the incensed eye-contact Clegane was making with him in the rear-view mirror.

“Who’s looking after Ned?”

“Got my friend Bella on it. Always had a bit of a flame for Steady Neddy,” he grinned, trying to ease the tension between him and the seething veteran in the driver’s seat.

“And what’s she going to say if he asks who hit him?”

“Well at first I said to tell him _I_ hit him,” he mused.

Sandor snorted, and Sansa closed her eyes, “Maybe you really _have_ cornered the market on bad ideas,” but Sansa was cut short by Arya sitting bolt up right, eyes snapping open. Sansa grabbed her hand quickly.

She looked between the two of them flanking her, and her eyes panicked as they rested on Gendry, her lips parted, she struggled for words.

“Arry are you alrigh—” but before he could finish his thought hot sick spurted out of her mouth, dribbling down his shirt. He looked up and away from the undignified absurdity of the moment as she retched again. There was nothing he could to stop it, he just gathered her hair and pulled it out of her face. In the rear-view mirror he made eye contact with Clegane whose eyes were filled with meanspirited mirth, he looked to Sansa, who was straining hard against slow laughter that began to burble over the surface.

“I can’t believe you. It’s not funny,” he retorted.

“It’s a little bit funny,” she said laughing at the back of her throat, “Oh she’s going to regret that. Are you sure this is still what you want?”

“I don’t think I have a choice at this point,” he said, giggles now beginning to form in his chest considering the absurdity of it.

“Well we can’t just leave you like this, come in, get yourself cleaned up.”

 _It could be worse,_ he thought, mind delirious, _It could be raining._

He scooted out of the car as Sandor opened the door, and reached out to carrying Arya, but felt Sandor pushing him out of the way. He stepped back, sensing the man’s protective streak, allowing him to carry her out into the house. He followed between Sandor and Sansa. He remembered the first time stepping into the house and feeling his heart sink at it’s grandeur, but this time it felt smaller, more intimate, sleepy even. Gendry followed him up a set of staircases back to her room. A smirk broke his face as he noticed it was strewn with clothes and makeup, in complete contrast to the last time he saw it.

 _She cleaned up for me_ , he thought with a smile. For even a moment he forgot he was covered in vomit.

“You,” Sandor barked, turning to him, “wait at the doorway.”

He reached down and kissed her gently on the forehead, before Sandor yanked her away into the room, slamming a door behind him. He turned to face Sansa, sheepish for a moment. He pressed his lips together, pointing to his shirt, “Can you…?”

“Follow me,” she said, drawing him down the corridor into her room. Her room was much different than Arya’s – a sprawling room appointed in dark wood and heavy furs.

“I’m surprised by you,” she said, making her way towards a towering armoire, “my sister threw up on you and you barely flinched – I’ve never seen anyone so far gone.”

“Speak for yourself,” he laughed, pulling his soiled shirt off, “That Clegane fellow couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

She began to dig in a large armoire, producing a baggy t-shirt and tossing it to him. _Winterfell 10 th Annual Fun-Run Sponsor _was emblazed on it in bold colourful lettering.

“I can’t really picture you running,” he said, laughing lightly at the shirt, “or having fun really.”

A loud, false cough from the doorway interrupted him, and he threw the shirt over his shoulders quickly – it was so tight it constricted awkwardly around his biceps.

“She’s settled down now, but I would go keep an eye on her,” he said gently, before turning to Gendry, “We best be going now,” he growled under his breath. Gendry wasn’t going to be the person to keep him waiting.

“Thank you for everything tonight,” he turned to Sansa with a weak grin. She smiled back gently.

“Now!” Sandor yelled, and he frogmarched past him, eyes wide and arms dangling awkwardly at his sides. He glanced back remorsefully as Sansa slipped into her sister’s room, watching until they had turned the corner and the two of them were out of sight. In the garage he made his way around to the back seat of the car, but Sandor refused to unlock the door.

“Up-front, with me,” he said, and obliged, settling into the front passenger seat next to him. He turned the keys in the ignition and the clock flickered onto the dash, “Where to?”

“Gods it’s 3:30 already?” he remarked laughing, trying to lighten the oppressive mood, “Just take me back to the theatre, I don’t have my car anyway.”

The two drove in the most uncomfortable silence he had ever experienced in his life. Finally, they pulled up in front of the theatre, and Sandor cleared his throat loudly, removing the keys from the ignition. He didn’t turn to look at him, but simply said, in a clear, strong voice.

“I don’t know what games you’re playing with the Lady Sansa, but _they end_ , right now.”

“I don’t care for her like that,” he said quickly, “she’s much more partial to someone…a bit more mature.”

Sandor’s eyebrows raised, and sighed heavily.

“That’s why I called them _games_ ,” he said sharply, “You make the little one happy, and you’re a damn sight more useful than the Dornish fuck, but if you hurt her, I’ll make you wish you were dead.”

He nodded quickly, “I’ll do my best.”

He started at the ominous sound of all the car doors suddenly unlocking, and fumbled for the door handle.

“Now get the hell out of my car.”

He didn’t have to be told twice.

* * *

Arya woke that morning, her head throbbing, her mouth felt drier than a Dornish desert, her eyes still gummed with sleep. The evening before felt like a thick foggy daze, but she knew she was angry. She just couldn’t for the life of her figure out at who. She sat up and her head swam, the room spun, but setting a foot on the ground it suddenly righted. Bracing hard against the bed, she felt her left-hand ache, a purpling bruise blooming across her knuckles.

_Did I…hit someone?_

She glanced towards her nightstand, and a tall glass of water was sitting there. She gulped it down in earnest.

“Good morning,” a voice came from over her shoulder. Curled in an armchair in the corner of the room was Sansa, looking much worse for the wear, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her makeup running and her lipstick smeared, and the mere sight of her made her blood boil. She pressed her eyes shut trying to wracking her brain as to _why_ the sight of her sister provoked such a spike of rage.

She yawned widely and smacked her lips, and suddenly the image of her sister’s face whispering into Gendry’s ear, before he planted a frantic kiss on her cheek, and the anger laved over her body. And suddenly it clicked into place. She had punched Gendry in the face for kissing her sister.

“Are you ok?” her sister asked once more, before she staggered forward towards the washroom to shower. She hesitated at the doorway.

“I’m fine,” she said, the threat apparent in her voice. She stood stock still in the shower letting the rivulets of hot water beat a tattoo against her skin. She stood there debating whether or not to call in for work. Her head was still spinning, and there was a non-zero likelihood that she would vomit. And by the taste in her mouth, she apparently had done so over the course of last night. But on the other hand, she thought, looking at the bruise on her fist, she had to apologize for punching Gendry in the face. She might have been pretty fucking mad at him, but he didn’t deserve _that_.

She did her best to compose herself, and thankfully taking some painkillers and eating some food, the room stopped spinning. The entire time as she rode into the city with Sandor, things felt… _odd_. Or maybe she was still, completely mercilessly hungover. Sandor kept opening his mouth as if he wanted to speak, then closing it again, without saying anything at all. This had happened almost half a dozen times before they reached the theatre, and she couldn’t help but ask “ _What!_ ” perhaps a bit more sharply than intended.

“You were a gods-damned mess last night,” he said sternly, his brow knit with disdain, “You can’t do that again ok?”

“I don’t intend to any time soon,” she said, feeling a swell of annoyance and affection simultaneously.

He nodded curtly, stepping out of the car to get the door for her, “if you don’t feel well, call me.”

She was thankful that the lobby of the theatre was as dark and warm as it was, it would be easy to steal away into a shadowy corner backstage and grab a nap during her lunch break. She just felt the overwhelming need to see him that seemed to put blinders on anything else she might have to do.

“Didn’t expect to see you up and around so early,” Bella Rivers chimed from the ticket wicket, but she ignored her.

_How many people saw me drunk last night?_

Bella didn’t seem perturbed that Arya was ignoring her, eyes continuing to follow her.

“The big guy’s in, but go easy on him, he’s had a _rough_ _night_ ,” she grimaced against the scandalized way Bella said rough night that betrayed that what she had done was bad. Like really, earthshakingly bad.

Pushing through the heavy doors, sidling quietly around the darkened theatre – she spotted him hammering hard onto the stage, and her heart dropped – somehow seeing him in person set off uneasy butterflies unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Luckily she had gone undetected by him so far. Still unsteady on her feet, she padded closer and closer to the stage, before breathing a long sigh of relief when Davos appeared from the wings, holding a long sheet of foam core.

“Well rise and shine lass, _just_ who I was looking for,” Davos’ laugh boomed out over the orchestra level. She winced at the volume of his voice and he shook his head knowingly, “you look like you could use a little hair of the dog.”

“Hair of the dog?” she asked, mind thick and foggy, eyes lingering on the particular choice of tight t-shirt that Gendry was wearing.

“Hair of the dog that bit you,” Davos repeated, looking genuinely puzzled, “Gods I forget how young you two are sometimes.”

Gendry didn’t bother rising to his feet, he crouched, still consumed with the task at hand, “He means do you want a little bit of whatever you had last night.”

For some reason this made her face exceptionally hot, and she swallowed heavily.

"It means the only way to cure a hangover is to start drinking again,"  Gendry laughed lightly as understanding dawned on her, “He’s offering you booze Arya.”

She shook her head and scrambled on stage, simultaneously glad and frustrated that she wasn’t alone with him for a reason that she couldn’t quite pin down, “No, I think I’ll have to pass on drinking for the next…the next little while.”

For a man who had just been punched in the face he was…surprisingly gregarious towards her while still managing never to look her directly in the eye. The three of them worked relatively easily, Gendry working on stage frames off to the side, and Arya shadowing Davos to style foam to look like flagstone on the drum turrets of the castle.

Just as lunch hour finally rolled around, Davos clapped the dust from his hands, and passed off his tools to Arya, “now that I know my set construction is in two sets of strong, young, _sober_ hands, I have an appointment I have to attend to – I’ll be back in a bit to check in on the progress, so don’t think just because I’m not here you can slack.”

Arya grasped the tools limply in her hands, unsure if she was more unnerved by the idea of Davos watching over each one of their strangely stunted interactions, or him leaving them alone. She watched as the old man made for the emergency exit with some difficulty.

“Does he really have an appointment?”

“Who knows,” Gendry shrugged, “he’s had to work double-time the past couple days. I think he’s been spoiled by having two apprentices. Gone soft,” he smiled, clapping the sawdust from his hands and rising to full height. He turned to her, crossing his arms, biceps straining against his shirt. It was the first time since she arrived that she was close enough to appraise the damage - It wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. He had two puffy, dark circles beneath his eyes that gave him that profoundly tired look that he’d had the first time she’d met him outside the theatre. She glanced furtively between his face and her knuckles.

_Looks like his hard head came in handy for once._

“Arya, I –” He began, but she interrupted him. She needed to say it before they got too far off track.

“Listen,” she said cutting across him and just as he uncrossed his arms, she clocked something familiar.

 _Winterfell 10 th Annual Fun-Run Sponsor._ She knew that t-shirt. She had seen it buried a thousand times at the bottom of Sansa’s armoire when she used to sneak in to nick good clothes from her sister in high school. Suddenly, everything had clicked into place, and she was seething mad.

“I’m sorry about what happened last night,” she said, throat suddenly extremely tight, “But you sorta had it coming,”

“What do you mean by that?” Gendry replied slowly, sounding genuinely dumbfounded.

“Trust me it won’t happen again,” she said, balling her fists, voice venomous, “It doesn’t look good on my family.”

He breathed deeply, pressing his eyes shut, before simply placing his hammer down on stage and hopping down.

“Fine,” he said, dejected, “I’m taking my lunch with Bella.”

“ _Fine!_ ” she sneered back, trying to sound as petulant as possible without her eyes being glued to how his muscles moved underneath the tight shirt.

She had every right to be mad at him, and he had every right to be mad right back – so if anything they were somehow, finally, even. She stood pacing back and forth on stage, trying to force herself to expend some of her furious energy on the work Davos had set out for her. After finishing her second panel, she found she was too frustrated to focus on the task at hand. Figuring Gendry was already long gone from the theatre, eating lunch in some hole in the wall café, gossiping with Bella Rivers over why he couldn’t have his cake and kiss her sister too.

She stormed into the lobby consumed by her own fuming internal monologue to the point that she barely noticed herself cuffing hard into someone’s shoulder. The force of the collision sent her reeling for a moment, before looking up to see Dayne flattening his shirt sheepishly. A bolt of dread froze her in place as she looked up to see him sporting two aubergine-coloured black eyes and a expansive bruise across the bridge of his nose. For a moment she couldn’t move, or speak, feeling the cold grip of sick overwhelming here.

“Arya I didn’t think you’d be at work today, you had…quite the night last night,” he said, echoing just about everyone who had seen her today. He swallowed heavily, glancing quickly over his shoulder.

“You too,” she replied distantly, eyes scanning his face with a dreamlike fascination, “What happened to your nose?”

“Well now that’s a funny story – I couldn’t for the life of me remember, but Bella – you know Bella right? From the box office? She told me we all went outside for some air and I tripped getting onto the fire escape and hit my face off the ledge,” he laughed awkwardly, blush rising up in his face.

She inspected the bruising at some distance, but knew immediately what they looked like. In her childhood she’d gotten into far too many scraps, and doled out far too many hard left hooks to _not_ know what a fist to the face looked like, “I was on the fire escape?”

“Yeah you were heading up to the roof,” he explained.

Her mind flashed back to the murky memory of her scrambling up the stairs, pursued by…Dayne? Why was she going up the stairs? She remembered her vision was bleary with tears, the roof of her mouth throbbing with inconsolable wrath as her tightly balled fists rained down in volleys as she beat them against…something. Something hard. She looked down to the heel of her hands expecting to see  scabbed-over scrapes or prickles of blood where she’d punched a wall, but her hands were bare. Whatever she was hitting it was something hard…but soft?

“I mean, you were before I hit my head – don’t really remember what happened then,” he said with a laugh.

She remembered her hands being caught. She remembered her hands being held. She remembered the sheer frustration at it. She just wanted to swing and swing and swing because Gendry had _kissed her sister_. But his hands had encircled hers. He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, the touch of his lips on her skin lighting a fire in her that felt like something out of a dream. The delicious scruff of his face pressing against hers. The smell of his body. She remembered pulling hard at his collar, and his mouth was on hers.

_His mouth was on hers._

She was kissing Gendry Waters and he was kissing back. Her jaw dropped open slightly, marvelling at the idea – _he wanted her just as much as she wanted him._

“Sounds wild,” she murmured vacantly, before swallowing hard, “do you remember anything else?"

“I wish I remembered. I mean. It sounds like a hell of a party – _I want to remember,_ ” Dayne said, seemingly lost in his own, vague memory.

The hair on the nape of her neck stood up, as she could feel her hands stroke the front of his jeans, and him kiss her so gently on the lips. _When I kiss you I want you to remember it._

_Gods._

_Fucking._

_Dammit._

Her mind was instantly clouded, it felt like she had left her body – Dayne was still prattling on about wanting to take Bella out for lunch as a thank you, but only if Arya was ok with it – but she barely cared at this point.

“What? It’s fine,” she breathed, “I think she’s out for lunch though, maybe try again during the week?”

“Great idea, you can tag along too,” Dayne kissed her quickly on the cheek, “I won’t keep you – I know how busy you get around here.”

She watched Dayne bound out of the lobby a smile spread across his face, all the while her heart racing uncontrollably in her throat.

Once he cleared the doors, she raced to the women’s bathroom and sat in front of the vanity bulbs, before digging frantically in her backpack for a small emergency kit. She hastily applied some makeup and shook out her hair, watching it fall into more attractive waves. If she was going to make a move, she didn’t want to look like she had just vomited in her mouth. Stepping back, she admired the effect – she almost looked and felt like a normal person. Breathing deeply in a vain attempt to centre herself, she made her way back into the theatre.

Gendry had returned to his job, hammering away his frustrations, and refusing to look her in the eye. She sidled her way through the wings and onto the stage, watching every move he made with sudden, acute clarity.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” she walked across the breadth of the stage, her footfalls booming through the empty theatre like cannon-fire. He didn’t turn his head as he kept hammering nails into the staircase. He was a magnificent creature – especially when he was working. She watched, rapt as his back muscles rippled mesmerizingly beneath the too-tight shirt.

“You’re sorry about apologizing?” he said, his voice acerbic, dripping with disdain. She wasn’t going to let it stop her. She could feel the ghost of his lips on her own, and she wouldn’t stop until he knew what it meant to her.

“I’m sorry about saying it will never happen again,” she said firmly, stopping by his side.

“ _You’re going to punch me again?_ ” he scoffed, still refusing to look back at her. Her fingers ran gently over his broad shoulders, touch featherlight, fingernails grazing gently over the curve of his back up against the hot skin of his neck.

“You said you wanted me to remember,” she whispered, and his hammer fell once more before he froze. She leaned down, fingers trailing up to take his face decisively in her hands, drawing him up to full height, “I remember,” His storm blue eyes smoldering with a dark intensity as he gazed at her, realization dawning on his face, “I remember, and I want it.”

There was no hesitation – he lunged forward grasping her by the waist, collapsing this space between them instantaneously, connecting a bruising kiss onto her lips. His mouth was urgent and demanding, his hands roving up the nape of her neck and tangling through her hair. His tongue delved deeper, exploring every inch of her mouth as she indulged in earnest, bodies grinding together with breathless abandon. Pleasure had thrilled through her that felt unlike anything she ever experienced before – the same lightning bolt she had felt from the moment they met was running through her like an electric current. She never knew this is what kissing could feel like, but then again - every kiss had been a stage kiss before this one. Everything had been rehearsal. Her hands struggled to explore beneath his shirt that was so tight it was nearly plastered against his skin. His mouth unlatched from hers, dragging open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck.

“I can’t do this,” she breathed raggedly as he sucked hard at her neck, as her fingers scrabbled at the hem of his shirt, “not this while you’re wearing my sister’s shirt.”

She could feel him laugh against her skin, “Is this,” he punctuated each word with another dizzying kiss against her throat, “Is this just your way of saying you want my shirt off?”

She nodded quickly as she bit her bottom lip, a wicked grin spreading across her face. He peeled the shirt off with some difficulty, balling it up and pitching it away into the wings. She took in all of his sculpted body, feeling the unending privilege that it was hers, _all hers_. Not in a dream. Not in a drunken stupor. Right here. Right now. She could barely stop her hands from wandering over his body, nails raking hot red trails up to his pecs before snaking around his neck, as he shuddered against her touch. She pressed her lips to his chest, pressing small kisses from the coarse dark hair from the base of his abs to his nipples. She slid her tongue against the sensitive pink flesh experimentally, and heard a sharp intake of breath that urged her on, sucking and licking. Just as she heard a breathy unrestrained groan rise from his throat, she felt his hands on her face, pulling her back up to his insistent mouth.

“Don’t you like it?” She whispered against his lips, and he kissed her with such hunger that she felt her heart hammer hard in her chest, feeling like she was drowning in him.

“I like it,” he gasped, resurfacing, eyes captivated with hers, “But last night you were in control. Today,” he said tilting her chin up to him, “ _I’m the boss_.”

“What happened to co-workers,” she slid her fingers up around his neck, _“equals?”_

“You want equals?” He grasped hard at her hips, and in one graceful motion hiked her up his torso, her legs grasping hard around his midsection, feeling his rock-hard length bracing against her ass. They were kissing so feverishly she didn’t know exactly where they were going, but to her it didn’t matter. He set her down onto the workbench in the wings, “Then we’ll be equals.”

His hands grasped at the edges of her shirt, but she got there first, pulling it off with relish.

“There. Equals,” he breathed, he leaned back to admire her, his breath rolling heavily from his nostrils like a rutting bull. It felt strange to be looked at with such searing want and intensity – something that laid her bare so much more than her near nakedness. She gripped hard at his hips, pulling the two together. She ground her sensitive core against his denim clad cock, as he began to thrust in time, just as arduous and needy as she was. The feeling of his body against hers, and the fact that if it weren’t for a thin bit of denim his throbbing, stiff cock would be sliding against her slick folds made her heart hammer as she luxuriated in the new sensations of him bucking hard against her.

 _He doesn’t know though,_ a voice chimed in the back of her head, _that you’ve never done this before._

This voice was silenced though as one of his rough hands palmed her hips pulling her even tighter against his manhood and the other palmed at her tits, squeezing just slightly. His mouth drawing a hot path of kisses further down her neck and onto her collar, as she felt his hand begin to tug at the clasp of her bra.

“I’ve never,” she interrupted said suddenly. She wanted him so badly, but she needed him to know what he was getting into.

“What do you…” his eyebrows knit concernedly as he continued to lavish her neck with kisses. His thick fingers fumbling with her bra clasp.

_Just say it you idiot, before it goes too far._

“I’ve never been with anyone before,” she breathed, and she could feel his mouth disconnect from the skin of her neck, and his hands freeze in place. She felt her stomach sink. Of course he’d want to stop. Of course he’d want this to be over. She pressed her eyes shut waiting for the worst. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move, until he burst out into breathy laughter against her neck, leaning down hard into her shoulder.

“Stop,” she groaned, squeezing hard at his arm, letting her nails dig in just a little bit, “It’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry,” he panted into her shoulder, still punctuating his words with gasps of laughter. Panic began to roil again in her stomach, as he stood there laughing at her and she couldn’t resist the urge to explain.

“I just wanted to be honest with you before it went too far,” she said quickly, no longer in control of the words that came out of her mouth, “after the accident I just had a hard time relating to people, and then with Dayne…it just never felt right,” he was still a giggling mess, burying his face into the crook of her neck, “If you don’t want to do this then I’d understand.”

He managed to compose himself long enough to pull himself from her neck, biting his bottom lip, eyes brimming with affection. He captured her lips again as an answer, dispelling any doubt in her mind, as his tongue delved deep, lips ravenous on hers again. This time she could feel his lips curling into a smile as he kissed. He dragged his lips at a deliberate pace away from hers, leaving her dazed and stumbling for more, “I want this so much it’s embarrassing. I just spent so much time worry about,” he shook his head with a laugh, “you and him, and you never even – you made up all those stories. Gods you really are a good actor.”

“What am I supposed to say? Oh I’m just here in bed fantasizing about my coworker,” she scoffed.

“You were fantasizing about me, huh?” He leaned his forehead into hers, eyes twinkling with the kind of dark mischief that meant trouble. His fingers drew a tantalizing line down her thigh, “late at night, running your fingers between your thighs,” his other thumb caressing the shiny lines of her scars, holding her midsection close, “dreaming it was me…”

Colour rose in her face, and she looked away, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“Look at me,” he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes, “I know you’re new at this,” he planted another soft kiss on her lips, “but I don’t want you to feel embarrassed. I don’t want you to feel shy about this.”

“I just don’t want you to feel like you’re missing out on something,” she said gently.

“What do you want me to say, I wish you had sex with more guys?”

She laughed to herself, considering how silly her own doubts sounded when he said them out loud, “shut up, stupid bull.”

He smiled planting kisses across her jaw, “There’s my little wolf,” he whispered into her ear before nipping at her earlobe. His hands made quick work of her bra, unveiling her completely to him. He stood back looking over her.

“What?” she asked as his eyes wandered over her.

He breathed heavily still, “it’s just,” he leaned back in, kissing teasing circles around the mound of her breast, “even better than I thought it’d be.”

“I don’t believe that,” she breathed, as he palmed her other breast in earnest, rolling her nipple in his finger, “prove it –”

But just as she asked for proof, he flicked his tongue over the tip of her nipple and the center of her brain that she used to form words was suddenly flooded with a brand-new sensation. He grinned naughtily, looking up at her, blue eyes filled with male pride, as he swirled his tongue around her pert pink teats, now standing at perfect attention. He pressed his hips back into position against her, his mouth sealed around her nipple, sucking hard now and she threw he head back, whining in exhilaration. She had expected his lips and tongue on her clit to bring this kind of pleasure, but this was something completely unexpected. She panted deliriously pulling him closer, grabbing fistfuls of hair, and he groaned against her tit, sucking and licking even harder. He nipped roughly against her nipple, and she keened as if a lightning bolt of pleasure had bounded straight to the heat between her legs, bringing her so close to peaking it felt cruel for him to stop.

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry, I just wanted to –” he said, looking up at her, eyes flooding with remorse.

“Again,” she moaned breathlessly, winding her fingers through his hair pulling him back against her skin. She didn’t need to say it anything more as his mouth was on her again, nipping and sucking and licking hard against her as he canted hard into her, cock swelling impossibly larger. She couldn’t stand it, she wanted him inside her. “Take me,” she gasped. He moaned against her, fingers now fast at the button of her jeans.

“Believe me, I will,” he growled against her, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans, “but not tonight. I want to take things slow.”

“What if I don’t want to go slow,” she whined playfully as his fingertips skimmed over her panties before venturing below. She was already embarrassingly wet, but she could barely blame herself. It felt like she had waited forever for this, and she didn’t want to wait any longer. His fingers skimmed gently through her curls, finding purchase with her sensitive peak.

“Slow can be fun,” his thumb swirled luxuriantly around her clit, tormenting her, as she threw her head back gasping at the feeling.

“Don’t handle me with kid gloves,” she whispered into his neck, sucking hard on his pulse point. He hummed hard, breathing heavily.

“The gloves are off, trust me, love,” his fingers dragged torturously through her folds, his thumb grazing over the sensitive knot of nerves, touching it directly, making her whimper helplessly “are you usually this wet?” he smirked, fingers teasing her entrance, slipping gently in, only to slither back out.

“Only for you,” she hissed deliberately. Apparently it was the right thing to say, as he plunged his ring finger through her folds, “Gods,” she sucked in air, clenching hard against him as he slipped into her.

“Seven fucking hells, you’re tight,” he breathed in awe, not daring to move inside her, “we’re definitely going to have to take things slow. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He began to saw in and out cautiously, rapturously, each time inching further into the sensitive depths.

“Don’t flatter yourse—" she gasped as he slipped a second finger into her depths, pressure building now from her tight entrance gripping hard against him. She muffled a cry against his shoulder as his fingers bottomed out, his rough palm flush with her entrance. Gently now, she could feel his fingers curl, and a lavascious gasp shuddered through her. He dragged both broad fingers against a soft spongy place deep inside her, she had never quite reached herself, slowly picking up pace. Then suddenly he withdrew his hand, leaving her whimpering for more. He slipped the slick fingers between his lips, eyes pressed shut, a man lost in bliss.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she growled, and he re-opened his eyes, gaze becoming predatory.

“I thought you didn’t want me to flatter –” but she silenced him with a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue only making her throb with need. His hands flew back to position obliging in earnest, as his fingers began to dive in and out of her, curling up expertly against her g-spot. His thumb joined in, grinding against her peak, before his mouth unlatched from her lips, smearing hot, wet kisses down to her cleavage, before retaking it’s place, swirling and sucking at her nipple. He seemed to have perfected the symphony of movements, sucking hard at her tits as his fingers plunged in and out of her faster and faster, pressing hard into that spot that drove her wild. The sound of her sloshing wetness filled the wings as she ground hard into his hand, fingers thrusting hard against her g-spot. She did everything in her power to stifle herself from the undeniable urge to cry out in pleasure.

“Just like that,” she panted, pressure building in midsection, “I’m _so_ close.”

The words urged him on, finger fucking her even more ardently as he bit down hard against her nipple, sending shockwaves of pleasure through her body as she felt a deluge of wetness, and a burst of stars behind her eyes, coming harder than she had ever imagined possible. She cried out in pleasure but was silenced again by his mouth pressing hard against hers, tongue absorbing each involuntary moan of pleasure. She ground hard into his hand as she rode out the waves of exhilaration, his fingers still working hard at her, keen to wring every last bit from her orgasm, until her breathing slowed, and their hard kisses softened.

“You like to play tough,” he smiled, “but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone come harder.”

She couldn’t believe she had felt shy or self-conscious about him. She stared in absolute awe of this magnificent man who had made her feel more alive than she had ever thought possible. She wanted to do everything for him. Her fingers skimmed against his still hard cock through his jeans, raking her nails up and down it, as he stared, completely captivated at her for a while, “I’d like to return the favour.”

She began to unbuckle his belt as his breath quickened, but before she could grasp him, a familiar voice called out from the theatre.

“ _Hello?_ ” Davos was back, and not a moment too soon, “Is anyone working or do I have to stop paying you?”

She pulled on her discarded bra before pulling him close for one last kiss, “To be continued,” she whispered into his neck, sliding her hand up his denim clad erection, making him exhale heavily. The two dressed quickly – she yanked her shirt roughly over her head, and he did the same. She looked over him, the two looked sweaty and dishevelled but not in a way that would point to anything other than a long afternoon of light construction work. He nodded towards a large pallet of foam core, and he grabbed a drill and went out onto the stage. She scurried over, grabbing some and throwing it over her shoulder.

“Good to see you’re playing nice again,” Davos called from the back of the theatre.

She licked her lips and the two exchanged significant glances, trying not to look too flush or guilty.

“I’m going to take a bathroom break, if you want to give this one a hand with the staircase,” Gendry said and Davos nodded curtly, making his way to the stage. He passed her the drill and she mouthed _sorry_ as she felt a sharp pang of guilt that she couldn’t bring him to release. Watching him walk she could help but feel her competitive streak rear up in her chest - she wanted to see him as lost in pleasure as she was, watch him gasp and moan, mewling at her touch -

“Glad to see you two patched things up,” Davos whispered amiably, interrupting her wildly inappropriate train of thought, “he’s a good lad, but when he slips up – well he needs to be told how he can make things better. He knows he’s messed things up, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.”

She felt heat rise in her face and the tips of her ears turn pink. _He most certainly found the thing to put his finger on._

“I let him know how he could make it up to me,” she replied, smiling as innocently as she could muster, but she had the terrible fear that her face was still flushed from...well  _that_.

“Excellent. I’m tired of seeing you two bicker like a married couple,” he smiled before a thought dawned on him, “Marya wanted to invite you both to dinner Sunday, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much,” she said a huge grin spreading across her face.

Gendry jogged back up to the stage, looking thankfully far more mobile, “What are you two smiling about?”

“She’s coming to Sunday dinner tomorrow – and you are too, no excuses,” Davos said with great certainty, “And Marya said for you to wear that nice shirt she bought you.”

Gendry couldn't manage to stifle a desperate, breathless laugh. She joined in too, unsure of what was so funny, but she couldn't help but break into a smile watching him doubled over. She really couldn't help herself.

Davos cocked his head, feigning concern, "You sure he didn't have a little _Hair of the Dog_?"

Gendry sighed deeply swallowing and shaking his head, she watched him, eyes gleaming.

_All she knew for certain was that whatever dog that bit him last night...he sure as hell bit back today._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew - that was...another doozy. The cootie catcher says we're all going to smut jail for this, come along! 
> 
> I'm gonna try to get at least parts of another chapter done in September but October is a monster for me, in my personal life, and I'm writing in my spare time, but I promise - To be Continued. 
> 
> As always, you guys are the most lovely audience. Kudos, comments, everything is appreciated.


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